Four Darcy Daughters
by ruby gillis
Summary: Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam Darcy’s daughters are growing up. The Darcy household is harmonious until one handsome stranger moves to the neighborhood, and each of the four daughters sets her cap for him.
1. At Pemberley

Here is Pemberley; and I think you remember it well, don't you? It has not changed so much since you last saw it, I am sure. Still grand and a little imposing, to those who do not know it, but welcoming and mellow to the ones among us who do. Built in the old style, and beginning to be a little old-fashioned—but that is because of the new, modern manors going up all around it. The neighborhood of Derbyshire is becoming more and more crowded, in the year of our lord eighteen-hundred and thirty-five.

The style of these new dwellings is known as 'neo-classical'—but, as the lord of Pemberley is fond of remarking, there is nothing classical to be found in it at all. Mr. Darcy of Pemberley knows this because he is something of an aficionado when it comes to the not-so-neo classical style. The few improvements to his home in the past twenty years have all been done to resemble the Pantheon of Rome; in the garden by the lake there is a statue that many believe to be of Mr. Darcy himself, though in reality it depicts the Eros, the Greek god of love—Fitzwilliam Darcy would never dream of appearing anywhere, even by his own lake, in such a state of undress, and he has never, to anyone's knowledge, possessed such a splendid pair of wings.

The statue was a gift to his wife upon the occasion of their twentieth wedding anniversary, which occurred just over two years ago. It was something of a monumental present, but then, the Darcys' marriage has been something of a monumental thing in itself. Nobody expected it would last, or be so happy, except for the Darcys themselves, who have known it from the first.

Elizabeth Darcy—_nee_ Bennet, as you recall—is fond of walking by the lake in the afternoon, to visit her statue, and if the weather is fine (and sometimes when it is not) to walk further into the neighborhood, to see the progress of the houses going up. She has always been a fine walker, but of course _you_ remember. Here she is now, on a fine September day, looking very much the way you will remember her. Her curls are still dark and fine, her eyes are bright and lively, and it must be admitted that she is often mistaken for a much younger woman—nobody ever suspects that she has a twenty-one year old son, studying the law at Oxford, and four daughters besides.

Lizzy—as her husband calls her, still—walks down to give Eros a fond pat on the head, and then walks by the lake for a while. Through the trees she can see across the water to the house that is going up on the hill. On impulse, she decides that she will go and inquire as to its new tenants—the house will be done soon, and its inhabitants will be the closest neighbors to Pemberley. She hops a fence with surprising grace and takes a shortcut through the trees.

The builders at first don't see her among the bedlam of construction and so Lizzy has her thoughts to herself as she inspects the walls—pink stucco, which her husband will not admire. But it is a _little_ pretty, set against the green of the woods, and she can see that there is going to be a sweet little garden, with roses and trailing vines. Mrs. Darcy has a deep appreciation for gardens of any sort, so she supposes that her new neighbors can not be but _so_ bad.

"I say!" she shades her eyes and calls up to a man on the roof (which will come complete with elegant black wrought-iron balconies). "Can you tell me who this house belongs to?"

The man on the roof looks down and sees her there and jumps. "Oh, mum," he says, "You should not be there. If I was t'drop anything you would be hurt."

"Don't drop anything, then!" Lizzy laughs. "Sir—if I may enquire—who do you work for?"

"Why, Mr. Wimsey, a'coorse—Mr. Throckmorton Wimsey. It's t'be his house, when it's done."

"What a name!" cries Lizzy. "I have never heard the like. Tell me—do you know—is Mr. Throckmorton Wimsey a handsome man? I suppose he can't be, with a name like that, but one never knows."

"Why, I've never seen him, mum. Never clapped eyes on the fellow—wouldn't know him from Adam. Though, mum—if you will pardon me—I b'lieve he's a mite too young for you, not that you look very old. Mr. Wimsey is a young man, even if he is very rich. He made his fortune in tobacco, so I've heard."

Tobacco! Darcy will not like that. He says it is a stinking trade, unsavory and foul, but of course, no where near the outrageousness of the slave traders. Darcy has been very outspoken about _them_—he was very active in the bill of Abolition that went through the Parliament only last year. But Lizzy is not thinking of that now. Young—and rich!

"He had better not be handsome," she says darkly. "Or my four daughters will tear him to bits amongst themselves."

"Four daughters, eh?" asks the carpenter, looking interested. "I wouldn't mind them a-tearing me to bits, mum—if they look anything like you, that is. Respectfully meant, a'course."

"And very graciously appreciated," laughs Lizzy, bowing. "Tell me, are you a drinking sort of man, Mr…?"

"Eddyson," says the carpenter. "And mum, I don't touch the stuff."

"Very good. Do you gamble?"

"Why, not at all!"

"And would you consider yourself to be a man of uncertain scruples, Mr. Eddyson?"

"Why, no, mum!" he says, indignantly. "My scruples are certain as ever!"

"Then," Lizzy says certainly, "You may come right over and take away any one of my girls that you like. Tell me—would you like a pretty wife or a smart one? If you want pretty you may have Sophy but if you want a clever wife, then Tess is the one. Well, think on it, Mr. Eddyson—and tomorrow afternoon you may come and bid for her hand. I shall tell my husband Mr. Darcy to expect you."

Mr. Eddyson at first does not see the joke and is so dismayed that he drops his hammer. It falls, but Lizzy dodges it and waves him goodbye. She is still laughing at the memory of his stricken face as she makes her way home.


	2. The Darcy Daughters

Within the first year of her marriage, Elizabeth Darcy surprised everyone—including herself—by producing a male heir, a bold little lad with his mother's eyes and his father's dark brows. His parents adored him on first sight, and immediately decided to see if they could repeat their feat of daring and nobody on earth was surprised when their next child was a daughter.

"I do not mind," confided Eliza to the baby. "Indeed, I have been expecting you."

Their next child was a girl—and the next—and then, when nobody thought there could possibly be another, came along a pair of them.

"Lizzy," said her husband, with a daughter in each arm, "We must stop. If we have another it will be five girls. Your father has five girls and he is a most eccentric man. I do not want to be eccentric; I like myself as I am."

"Papa would have been eccentric with one girl or twenty," Lizzy laughed. "But I agree with you—four is enough. Four Darcy daughters will be quite the thing."

The oldest of the daughters was now eighteen years old; her name was Sophronia, but everybody knew her as Sophy. It was admitted by everyone but her sisters that she was the prettiest of all the Darcy girls. Her complexion was peaches and cream and her hair was long and dark and tended to curl all by itself without any help from Wilson's hot irons. She was beautiful from birth, and every person in the family connection wanted to claim credit for Sophy's beauty. Her grandmother avowed that Sophy looked like _her_ and held the baby up next to her face to show that they had the same mouth.

"Perhaps, Mamma," said Lizzy dubiously, pinching her husband on the arm to keep him from saying anything at all.

Even Lady de Bourgh, who had been somewhat frosty to her nephew since his marriage, dropped in to admire the baby, and after a careful inspection, pronounced that little Sophy had the 'de Bourgh' nose.

"I hope not," said Lizzy distastefully, when the grand lady had departed. "Otherwise I should have to cut it off, snip-snip."

"If thy right hand offend thee, cast it away," supplied her husband helpfully.

"I rather think Sophy looks more like my dear Jane than anyone else," Lizzy mused, as she watched her daughter's little face. "Let us hope she will resemble Jane in temperament, too. I never _was_ a good daughter, but I should like to _have _one."

Sophy was as unlike her Aunt Jane in temperament as it was possible for a girl to be. She was a very good girl—like her mother before her—but she was filled with a restless energy and flitted from one thing to the next with alarming speed. "I shall be a famous actress one day," she vowed, and spent the next weeks slumping to the floor in mock-faint whenever anyone said anything that could be interpreted as shocking, and pretending to sob into her pillow for no reason at all.

Her father said, "You will star in _The Tempest_ one day, I'm sure."

"Really, Papa? And what part will I play?"

"The Tempest, of course."

By the next week Sophy's career as an actress was forgotten and she was determined instead to ride and hunt—the most expensive of her hobbies to date. Her beautiful Andalusian pony had been ridden twice and now spent its days growing fat in the Pemberley fields.

Sophy was often bored. She was bored today; there was nothing to do. She said it aloud, "How I hate a day like this! I am so bored. There is nothing to do."

None of her sisters made any rejoinder so she said it again.

"For heaven's sake," said Freddie, peevishly, "I wish you'd gone walking with Mamma."

Freddie—Frederica Darcy—was next in age to Sophy; she was seventeen and there were some who said she was just as pretty as her sister, but one would never know it from looking at her, because she 'did nothing' with her looks. She wore her fair hair as short as her mother would allow and once she had shocked her father for asking for a pair of riding breeches like her brother William's. She had learned to ride with Sophy and kept it up and she insisted on riding astride, though she had no breeches to do it in. It was a most precarious situation. Freddie was fond of vowing that she would never marry; she wanted to move to London and live in an artist's studio, though she was not very fond of art. She was sprawled on the chaise, reading an article about the Reform Act.

"I think it horrid that women have been barred from the vote," she said, to no one in particular, and three of her sisters rolled their eyes, because she had said it so often before.

"No wonder Sophy is so bored," said Henrietta Darcy, who was trimming a hat. "Let's talk of something else."

Hetty was, as even her mother and father admitted, the silliest of all the Darcy girls; she thought of nothing besides fashion and style. She was not quite so pretty as Sophy or Freddie but if she _did_ make something of her looks, and so nobody noticed. Hetty hated to be called Hetty. She would have preferred a name like 'Arabella' or 'Violetta' and considered it very bad luck to be stuck with 'Henrietta,' which was the name of some old moldy ancestor or other. She was sixteen and she felt it very keenly—if _she_ had been born only a few minutes later, her name might have been Theodosia, which was not Violetta but was more romantic than Hetty.

Theodosia, like Henrietta, was sixteen, and she resembled her father's sister, her Aunt Georgiana, while Hetty looked more like Aunt Kitty. People were always wondering if Tess was consumptive, which made her nervous that one day she would be. She was as slender as a reed and so sensitive that her skin flushed pink whenever anyone spoke to her. She did not often speak herself, but she read a lot, and whenever she said anything, it was very thoughtful and intelligent. So Tess, despite her shyness, had acquired a reputation for being very clever, and she always did her best to deserve it.

Right now she was watching her sisters and thinking how nice it would be if she were as pretty as Sophy—as confident as Freddie—as stylish as Hetty. If she were all of those things she would be just like Mamma, and Tess adored her Mamma above all things and thought her the perfect picture of womanhood.

As much as she loved her mother she hated it when her sisters fought. "Sophy," she said wheedlingly, "Here is a letter from Aunt Jane to us all—you may have it—and here is one from Aunt Lydia, too."

Sophy fell on Aunt Lydia's letter, ignoring Aunt Jane's, which made Tess feel slightly worried. She loved her Aunt Jane, but she was not so sure about Aunt Lydia. Sophy, however, loved her. "Oh, what fun she must be having in London!" Sophy cried, after reading the first few lines. "It is too unfair that Papa will not let us go."

"Does she say anything about how ladies are wearing their hats?" Hetty wondered. "I should adore one of those turbans like Aunt Georgiana was wearing last time we saw her; I suppose they are out of fashion now and if they are I shall die, never having had the chance to wear one."

"I suppose," began Tess hesistantly, "That Papa would let us go to London if we were to stay with Aunt Jane while she is in town."

"Oh! Aunt Jane," sniffed Sophy. "She is a dear but she is so dull—now that Bennet and Raleigh have gone away to school the house will be desolate, no fun to be had at all."

"I am going to visit them at Cambridge," said Freddie decidedly. "Raleigh has promised to take me to a cricket match, and to teach me to play."

"Oh, Freddie," cried Hetty, horrified.

Sophy had taken up Aunt Jane's letter, having finished with Aunt Lydia's short note. "Here is something of interest!" she cried. "Aunt Jane says that a friend of the family is coming to live in Derbyshire—he was Bennet's schoolmate, you know—he is a man named Mr. Throckmorton Wimley and he will be living quite close to Pemberley come Michaelmas."

"Throckmorton Wimsey!" exclaimed their mother, coming into the girls' room. "That is the second time I have heard that name today, and as it is such an _odd_ name I think it must be the same person. What does Jane write of this Mr. Wimsey?"

Sophy scanned the letter. "He is rich, Aunt Jane writes—well, she doesn't exactly write—but she says he is very elegant and everyone knows what _that_ means. And she writes, 'I have never seen a man of such good humor; if my Beth were older I should fear for her heart.' Oh, girls! Oh, Mamma!"

Mrs. Darcy was perplexed. "Why should it send you into raptures to know he is a man of 'good humor?'" She wondered.

"Mamma, everyone knows that 'good humor' means he is deadly handsome!"

"I did not know," said Mrs. Darcy, "So it cannot be 'everyone,' as you say. And Jane is inclined to think everyone kind and as you know, not everyone is 'deadly handsome!'"

"Still," Hetty said, brightening. "I do not think it would hurt to get to know him, once he is here. Mamma, you _will_ have Papa visit on him, as soon as he is settled. Oh, you will, Mamma, _won't_ you?"

Elizabeth Darcy remembered hearing those words somewhere before—she thought back—_Netherfield Hall is let at last…Mr. Bingley…my dear, you must visit him as soon as he comes!_ Oh, oh, she remembered, and what a scandal had followed.

"Heaven help us all!" she cried, and subsided into a fit of laughter that thoroughly mystified her daughters.


	3. The Marvelous Mr Wimsey

A month elapsed—Michaelmas came and went—the work on the pink stucco house was completed and one day on her walk, Lizzy Darcy saw a row of carriages out front

A month elapsed—Michaelmas came and went—the work on the pink stucco house was completed and one day on her walk, Lizzy Darcy saw a row of carriages out front. A harp was being loaded in, and a marble bust of Shakespeare, and she could see the gilt lettering painted on the sign by the drive. She put her hand to her mouth and ran to tell her husband what their neighboring estate would be called, from henceforth, and even forevermore.

"Wimsey Woods!" cried Darcy, looking fiercely annoyed. "What a stupendously ridiculous name for a place!"

"It is not so dignified as 'Pemberley,'" said Lizzy slyly. "But I have heard that one must not judge a book by its cover, and it follows then that you should not judge your neighbor by the name of his home. I do not think you can get out of calling on him; the girls have spoken of nothing else for weeks and Wilson tells me that the nursery will be in revolt if you do not go. And Porters wants to know if we will lay bets on who will 'catch' Mr. Wimsey's heart. My money is on Sophy for she always gets every thing she wants; which of our girls do you think it will be?"

"If he is a smart man he will not take any of them," said Fitzwilliam, more darkly than he felt, for he loved his daughters very much. "If he is stupid, I expect he will want Hetty."

"You are too harsh with Hetty; she is not any sillier than I was at her age, and I have seen worse. I do not worry about Hetty, she will outgrow her silliness, but I wonder if Tess will ever overcome her shyness? She blushed at dinner, did you notice, when you asked her about her new hair-do, and it was only family. I do not want to sound like _my_ Mamma, but the girl will never catch a husband unless she learns to be more comfortable with people. Sometimes I think we should send her to London with Jane; I think it would do her good."

"Not while Lydia is in London," said Darcy firmly. "I should not like your sister Lydia to get her claws in any of my girls. Well, Lizzy, if I have to go call on Mr. Wimsey, which of these cravats should I wear? If I wear _this_ one—which was a gift from Bingley, he has deplorable taste in ties—do I run the risk of disgracing the family name?"

"You have already done that, dear," said Lizzy, tying it for him, neatly. "It happened when you married me, you know."

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As it turned out, Mr. Darcy did not have to call on Mr. Wimsey at all; Mr. Wimsey came calling at Pemberley instead.

"It _is_ him!" cried Sophy, looking down from the upstairs window. "Oh, he is just as handsome as I thought he would be. I can only see the top of his head, but it is the finest top of any head I have ever seen."

"How do you know it is him?" Freddie asked.

"Of course it is him—I have never seen him before."

"Sophy, that is failed logic! Because you have not seen him does not prove that he is Mr. Wimsey. He might be a traveling evangelist, or a brush salesman."

"Oh, pooh!" Sophy stuck out her tongue. "I have never seen an evangelist with such delightful curls. I do not think they believe in curls. Well, there is only one way to find out and it is to go down and meet him." She tripped down the stairs and her sisters followed.

Sophy was right; their visitor was Mr. Wimsey. It was most unorthodox for a person new to the neighborhood to call on his neighbors instead of the other way round, but nobody minded, for Mr. Wimsey was very agreeable. He apologized for his gaffe, he never would have dreamed of calling uninvited, but his retinue had knocked the orb off of one of Pemberley's gate post as it drove past and he thought he should come to say how sorry he was. To inflict property damage upon such a fine gatepost was surely not an auspicious beginning for his new life in Derbyshire. He held out the orb to Mr. Darcy, somewhat shamefacedly, and offered to get a new one, if only they would let him know where to purchase such a thing.

"Think nothing of it," said Mrs. Darcy, quite automatically, although the orb would prove to be quite expensive to replace. But Lizzy was not thinking of that, now. She, like her daughters, was captivated to her toes by their new neighbor.

He _was_ just as 'kind' as Jane had suggested in her letter. What features! Lizzy thought that he looked quite like Michelangelo's David. Her daughters, who had never seen Michelangelo's David, thought him the simply the handsomest man in the world. A straight nose and clean jaw, full lips, pale eyes and Byronic curls. His teeth were long and white and straight, which showed that Mr. Wimsey did not engage in the habit that had made him his money. But you _could_ see, from looking at him, that he had been very prosperous. When Tess saw him she thought of the Scripture verse, 'silk and purple raiments.' Mr. Wimsey didn't wear purple of course, that would have been very odd, but his vestments were of such fine quality that the effect was the same as if it had been.

Mr. Wimsey studied each of the little flower-faces peeping up at him, and smiled good-naturedly. Sophy was so impressed that she thought she might pretend to swoon, but then Hetty really _did_ swoon. Everyone fluttered around her, and her mother had to ask Wilson twice to run for her salts, because Wilson was standing in the doorway, transfixed. Her mouth hanged open and she bobbed into a curtsy, and fled, like a little rabbit.

Hetty came to in Mr. Wimsey's arms and immediately swooned again. This time her father patted her awake, flush with exasperation.

"I am quite composed," Hetty said, looking anything but composed.

Mr. Wimsey said that he was overjoyed to see it, and that Miss Henrietta must endeavor to remain so composed, for besides the broken orb, his purpose in visiting had been to invite them all to a ball at Wimsey Woods in exactly a fortnight, a ball that (he hoped) would show them all how exceedingly pleased he was to live in such a charming neighborhood, among such charming residents.

"We'll be there," said Freddie, who was the one least likely to be impressed by Mr. Wimsey's charms. But she _was _so impressed that she did not realize she had been forward until days later, and when she did realize it, she was mortified. Perhaps Mr. Wimsey liked a demure woman, and here she had gone, being brash and forward! He could not possibly like her at all, he could not. Oh—could he?

"He is a wondrous man," Sophy said to her sisters that evening, as she brushed her long dark hair. "I will wear my yellow to the ball at Wimsey Woods. I am sure Mr. Wimsey will like to see me in yellow."

"_My_ yellow!" cried Freddie, who had wanted nothing to do with the dress ever before when it had arrived, courtesy of Aunt Kitty. She had happily handed it off to Sophy but now she could not bear to think of Sophy wearing it. "The yellow dress is mine, and you had better not forget it. I will be wearing yellow to the ball at Wimsey Woods. I am sure Mr. Wimsey will like me in it more than he would like to see you!"

"If I were to wear my pink," said Hetty, in a strong voice, "Mr. Wimsey would not have a _chance_ to look at either of you. He would be too busy looking at _me_. Yellow! With your complexions!"

Tess said, "Oh, please don't let's fight, darlings. He is only a man."

"Only a man!" Her sisters shuffled off to bed, aggrieved over her slight on their new friend. _Only_ a man!

Later, in their bedchamber, Mrs. Darcy asked her husband what he thought of their new neighbor.

"I wish Mr. Wimsey had never been born," said Fitzwilliam Darcy, and blew out the lamp in an angry huff.


	4. At Wimsey Woods

As it turned out, Sophy did not wear yellow to Mr

As it turned out, Sophy did not wear yellow to Mr. Wimsey's ball, and Freddie did not wear it, either, and Hetty did not wear her pink. Mrs. Darcy threw up her hands in horror at the very idea of it.

"If we were in London, it might do, but this is a simple country ball, and not very formal. I do not mean to sound like a dowd but you _will_ wear white; or else I shall have to run down to the lake and drown myself in it for shame. You are all very good girls, and you will look well enough in white; and if you would contrive to make Mr. Wimsey think of you in a matrimonial way, what better color could there possibly be?"

"They are far too young to be thinking of matrimony!" cried Mr. Darcy.

"Oh, hush," said his wife, lovingly. "I know that—and you—but girls _will_ dream."

Sophy did not mind much wearing white. She knew that she looked well in it, and her soft Grecian-style gown flattered her figure enormously. She looked with satisfaction at her bustline, neatly showed by the empire waist, and nodded to herself as she pulled on her gloves. Freddie came up beside her and jostled for position in front of the mirror.

"Freddie!" Hetty cried. "You have a stain along the back of your gown! Oh, it's horrid! What could you have done to get it?"

"Oh—I had forgotten! I wore this dress last time Raleigh came to visit; we had such a gay time, sliding down the hill outside the church. You must try it sometime, girls, it feels like one is flying!"

"You cannot wear that dress," said Hetty. "You will disgrace us all." She was experimenting with jewelry, and stabbed a clip of pearls through her curls. It was true that pearls looked better on dark hair than fair, but Hetty did not want Sophy or Tess to have it, so she wore it herself.

Freddie cast off her gown and took one of Tess's. Tess was rather the same height as Freddie but plumper, too, and the dress hung from her lanky frame in folds.

"You had better ask Porters to sew a line of ruffles to your shift," said Sophy, eyeing the limp neckline with pleasure.

"I wont!" Freddie cried. "I hate horrid tricks like that. I do not look so awful the way I am and besides, I want a man to like me for what is between my ears, and not my shoulders!"

"_Really, _Freddie!" cried her mother coming into the room. "You must not speak so forwardly of shoulders! People will get the wrong idea. Come along, girls—we are already fashionably late—if we wait a moment longer the fashion will go out of it."

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Mr. Wimsey was a judicious man, that went without saying; it was true they had never seen any evidence of this trait but he was so wonderful that of course he must be very equable and fair. He danced the first two with Sophy Darcy, which caused her no end of triumph. She glittered over her shoulder at her sisters; the thing was as good as done, it was a _fait accompli_. She was planning the names for her and Mr. Wimsey's six children, when Mr. Wimsey asked if he might dance the next two with Miss Frederica. Freddie stared up at him, rapt, never looking anywhere, even at her feet, which nearly caused her to trip, once. But she was so happy she did not notice.

When Mr. Wimsey came and asked to dance the next with Miss Henrietta, they realized that they were seeing Mr. Wimsey's judiciousness in action. He was not showing a preference for any of them; he was simply dancing his way down the line. They all seemed to fathom it at once. Sophy cried, "Oh!" and Freddie pinched her viciously, and Tess began to shake because the sixth was ending, and she knew that she would be next.

Before she could think it through she turned and ran from the ballroom.

In the garden it was quiet and cool. Tess held her hands to her burning cheeks and stole away to the shadows where nobody could see her. She was so successful at her hiding that presently, a dark shape moved into her, and then a voice cried out, "Excuse me! I do beg your pardon!"

"Oh," cried Tess, mortified to her toes, "It is nothing—it is my fault. I was…" she trailed off, because she did not want to tell this stranger that she had been skulking in the shadows, hiding.

"I do not care to dance," she finished, with all the dignity she could muster.

Her companion was a man of about twenty-five or thirty years of age, dressed all in dark plain clothes and with his hat in his hands. He had an affable face.

"Do you not care for it?" he wondered. "Why, I adore a dance more than anything—anything in the world! It is a capital amusement, chief above all other things."

"Then why do you not dance?" asked Tess, curiously. Then remembering her manners, she said, "I—I do not believe we are acquainted with one another."

"I do not believe we are, either," cried the man. "I am Harry Eustis—Rev. Henry Eustis. How _do_ you do?"

He shook her hand jovially and Tess was quite surprised. "You—a minister?" she wondered, and then she blushed. "Oh, I _am_ sorry. I did not mean…it is only that you are so—so jolly. I would not have taken you for a minister, that is how jolly you are."

The Rev. Harry Eustis laughed. He said,

"I never would have taken myself for a minister either. There are times when it quite amazes me that I am. It happens often when I am in the pulpit—and then I am so flummoxed I cannot give my sermon with half the emphasis that I intended and I am disappointed in myself."

Tess was curious, despite herself. "If you are so fond of dancing," she said, remembering a remark he made earlier, "Then why don't you do it?"

Mr. Eustis shook his hand mournfully. "I daren't do it. My patron is the Bishop of Rexworth, and he does not approve of dancing. I think because is not very good at it. I took over his parsonage when he moved up and he gave me a list of things I mustn't do. It is all very dry and horrid. But Rev. Collins—_Bishop_ Collins—has a soft spot for his old church, and he is determined that the vicarage of Rosings Park should not be disgraced in any way."

"Bishop of Rexworth!" cried Tess. "Rosings Park! I do believe, Mr. Eustis, that you speak of my uncle Collins!"

"Oh, I am sorry!" Mr. Eustis's face was a picture of dismay. "I did not mean to imply that your uncle is deficient in any way. He is a wonderful man and I am grateful for his guidance."

Tess said it was nothing, he should not trouble himself. She did _not_ say that she had never been fond of Uncle Collins, who had the habit of dropping for unexpected stays, and finding all manner of faults with the Darcy girls, which he pointed out to their parents minutely at each meal time. Tess privately thought that Uncle Collins was an odious man. He called her 'Theodooosia,' in an affected way, and she had been very glad when he had accepted a bishopric in the north counties, though she missed Aunt Charlotte and cousin Cathy very much.

Mr. Eustis was thinking. "If you are related to the very esteemed Mr. Collins, you must be one of the Darcy girls," he mused. "I have heard it said that the Darcy girls are the prettiest in Derbyshire and I believe it, now."

"Oh, that is what people say about my sisters," Tess said. "Sophy and Freddie and Henrietta—I am Theodosia Darcy. But please don't call me Theodosia," she begged. "I know it is quite proper but I hate it. I go by Tess."

"Well, Miss—Tess, I have told you why I do not dance; why don't you?"

Tess quaked in her slippers. She said, "I do not like it—I—if you must know, I think dancing very stupid and I never do it."

"Why? Can't you dance?"

"Yes—Mamma and Papa made sure of it. I had lessons with my sisters, of course. It is just that—" she looked up desperately at his face. "It is just that when I do dance, I am uncomfortable, I do not know what to say, my palms grow clammy and I fear I should run away in the middle of it all!"

"You are afraid," said Mr. Eustis knowledgeably.

"Yes—I suppose I am."

"Why, fear is perfectly surmountable," he said. "You must only try to quash it and you _can_. It is not easy at first, but it is worth doing. All fear comes from the devil, and one must never give in to that fellow, as you well know."

"I know," said Tess miserably.

"Here is what to do," said Mr. Eustis, kindly. "I do not suggest that you dance tonight, but you must go in and listen to the music, and tap your foot along with it. Soon you will feel that it is pleasant, the sound and the melody and if you do it long enough, you will _want_ to dance. Will you go and try it?"

"I will," Tess said, resolutely. When he put things that way it sounded so simple, so feasible, really. "And will you come and meet my sisters, Mr. Eustis?"

"I daren't," said Mr. Eustis again. "If I were to go in _I_ would tap _my_ foot, and before you know it, I would be dancing, and what would Mr. Collins say if he found out? I should lose my place for sure. Do not fret—I'll be in for supper, and I shall have many chances to meet your sisters, for I am to stay in Derbyshire for some weeks. Mr. Wimsey is my childhood friend and I am his honored guest. Listen—a gavotte! Go in and tap, tap away!"

Tess turned at the door. "It is very wrong of Mr. Collins not to let you dance!" she cried. "When you love it so!"

"I do not mind," Mr. Eustis called back, and he looked all around the dark empty garden and leaped up, clapping his heels together, the beginning of a jig.

"Oh," Tess laughed. "You have forgotten that while Mr. Collins cannot see you, God _can_."

"Yes," said Mr. Eustis, beaming. "But I've found that God is a much more reasonable sort than Mr. Collins."


	5. A Supper Party

"What a lot of very agreeable people we met at Mr. Wimsey's ball," said Sophy. She had said it many times in the past week since the ball had happened, and because it pleased her to say it, she said it again.

"Did you think so?" her father asked her, ruffling the pages of his newspaper. "I did not think there were _so_ many agreeable people there."

"You are not fond of simple country assemblies," said his wife, smiling. "I think we all know that."

But Sophy was more indignant. "How can you say so, Papa? I thought every one I met was perfectly cordial and agreeable, and more than that, every one was interesting and delighted me to no end."

"Now, that cannot be true," mused Darcy. "For every one in a room to be not only agreeable, but cordial _and _interesting _and_ delightful—the odds are against it. It cannot be."

"Mrs. Ellersby was most agreeable of all," Sophy concluded—Mrs. Ellersby being Mr. Wimsey's elder, married sister.

"Mr. Wimsey will have his feelings hurt when he finds you prefer his sister to him."

"Oh, Papa!" cried Sophy. "You misunderstand me purposely. I thought Mr. Wimsey the best, brightest person in the room, and I do believe he may be the best, brightest person in the world!"

"There are a lot of people in the world, Sophy," said her father. "I highly doubt that the best one will be a man whose Christian name is 'Throckmorton.'"

"That is twice now you have been flip about Mr. Wimsey, Papa!" said Freddie, rising from the couch, where she had been engrossed in a book on Mr. Bentham's ideas for Parliamentary reform. Now she cast it aside, indignantly. "I am beginning to think you do not like Mr. Wimsey at all, though I can't understand why. He is as agreeable as Sophy says—more, even. When we were dancing he told me I had a quick mind." She shot a look at her sister, triumphant.

"When he was dancing with _me_, he told me I had a sweet face!" Sophy exclaimed. "And everyone knows men prefer beauties over bluestockings."

"Girls," said their father, passing his hand over his eyes. "Do not fight, I beg you—my head aches. I do not dislike your Mr. Wimsey, Freddie—I find him a perfectly affable, if slightly stupid, gentleman."

"Stupid!" cried Sophy, bristling. "And he is not _Freddie's_ 'Mr. Wimsey,' Papa."

"If he is not mine, he is certainly not yours, Sophy!"

"The chief thing I hold against the fellow," said Darcy, "Is nothing he has said or intimated, or even his ridiculous cravats—I resent him, because before he came to Derbyshire, things were quiet and peaceful; now that he has come my girls are spitting at each other like cats, and I do not think anything will ever be quiet and peaceful again. Oh, for a passel of sons!"

"You do not mean that, Papa," said Tess, standing up to put her arms around her father's neck.

"Nor does he!" cried Hetty, and all four girls piled on and lavished their father with kisses, until even Darcy had to agree that he did not mean what he had said, at all.

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Mrs. Ellersby had said, at the ball, that she so hoped she would see the Misses Darcy again, soon; and the girls had been waiting ever since for when that pleasant occasion should occur. They did not have to wait _too_ long, for the next day came a note over from Wimsey Woods—would Miss Darcy, Miss Frederica, Miss Henrietta and Miss Theodosia (Tess winced to see the horrid name written out)—deign to honor her with their presences for supper and a night of music, on Tuesday, the twelfth?

The Misses Darcy, it turned out, would like no thing more under the banner of heaven.

They made a pleasant party. Wimsey Woods, for all its silly name, was pleasant and welcoming inside. There were instances of ghastly art, but they were mellowed by the furnishings, and the atmosphere, and the lively fire that cracked in the gate. Mrs. Ellersby greeted the girls warmly, and her husband even looked up from his game of cards to nod at them. Mr. Wimsey was delighted to see them, and Mr. Eustis, whom Tess had met in the garden, was as jolly-looking as ever.

He was really quite a nice-looking man, she reflected; it was a pity that he sat so close to Mr. Wimsey, because one did not notice his mild looks in the face of such splendor. But what he lacked in appearance he made up for in geniality. The girls had not been there five minutes before Mr. Eustis remarked on the particular loveliness of Miss Henrietta's hat.

"Thank you," said Hetty, with some pride. She was very proud of her hats; her father was fond of saying that if he took to drink and gambling, Hetty, at least, could make her fortune as a milliner.

"I have always been particularly fond of hats," Mr. Eustis explained. "I have thought, since I was a little boy, that I should like to marry a woman and buy her all the hats in the world—wonderful hats, with trimmings and trappings and laces and beads and feathers."

"Why don't you?" wondered Freddie.

"Oh, Miss Frederica, I am sorry to say that hats are on Mr. Collins list of Mustn'ts. Mrs. Collins, his wife, has naught but one new hat a year, and a very plain one at that."

"Oh, poor Aunt Charlotte," cried Sophy, "Mr. Collins is very unkind. I do not think she wanted to marry him, but she was very plain as a girl, and she could not get anybody else."

"Sophy!" exclaimed Tess.

"Well, it is _true_," Sophy insisted. "Aunt Charlotte says so herself. Our cousin Cathy is lovely, but she takes after her aunt Maria, and she is always afraid that her looks will fade with time. It is her biggest fear, she told me—and it is mine, too."

"I do not think you should ever have to worry about that," said Mr. Wimsey, certainly, and Sophy beamed at him in delight. "Nor any of the rest of you," added Mr. Wimsey, to the other girls, a little awkwardly.

"They are quite convinced of their loveliness, brother," said Mrs. Ellersby, coming to his rescue, "You need not tell them! To see them here puts me in mind of the Graces, of Greek mythology."

"Frederica is 'Mirth,'" Sophy cried, "And Hetty is 'Good Cheer.'"

"And that leaves Beauty, for your own," said Mr. Wimsey—exactly as Sophy had intended.

"But we have forgotten Miss Tess," said Mr. Eustis. "There are only three Graces, and there are four Darcy girls. Come, let her choose for herself—who do you pick, out of myth, for yourself?"

Tess colored. She was not used to being so directly addressed, and to comment on her own beauty or talents in such a gathering seemed so daunting that she could not do it. But they were all watching her, and she felt compelled to say something.

"I suppose—I have always felt—I have always _identified_ with the story of Daphne," she said, after a pause. "I do so love being out of doors. I hate when winter comes, though it is beautiful—I long for spring. I am never happier than when I am out, walking around Pemberley, seeing the green buds on the trees and the crocuses coming up through the snow."

"She gets that from mamma," Sophy explained.

Mr. Wimsey was watching her rather intently. "_Do_ you feel that way?" he wondered, as though Sophy had not spoken. "I have always loved that story, too—a girl becoming a laurel tree—and I feel much the same way. It is why I love this part of the country, why I came here. Mrs. Ellersby and I were raised in London, you know; but I have always enjoyed the beauty of the country, the wonderful natural peace to be found there. It is why I had my house built—here—among the trees."

"And why you named if Wimsey Woods," cried Freddie.

Mr. Wimsey looked embarrassed. "It is a terrible name for a house, but I haven't the imagination to think of anything more fitting."

"I would have called it Cedarton," said Sophy certainly.

"Oh, let us make it a game!" suggested Mr. Eustis. "We will all go around and say what we would call it, and if Wimsey likes, he may pick the best from the bunch. Miss Darcy says 'Cedarton,' which brings a picture to mind, but is not very apt, as there are no cedars 'round. No, Sophy, you may not change your mind, you have already spoken, and it is my turn. Let's see…I will choose Jordania, for Biblical reasons, of course." Mr. Eustis made a bow in Freddie's direction.

"Wemberley," said Freddie.

"But that is only Pemberley with a W!"

"It is what I like," Freddie laughed. "I think Pemberley the best name for the house, it is hard to think of any other."

Hetty was obviously bored by the game, she chose Winterwood quite off-handedly, and they all agreed that while it sounded good, a house in summer could not be called Winterwood. Mrs. Ellersby said she liked the sound of Downington, but didn't know why. They all laughed, good-naturedly, and it was Tess's turn.

"The house is on a hill," she said shyly, "So there should be the word 'Mount' or 'Heights' in the name. And we were talking of the Greeks—I choose 'Olympic Heights."

"Oh, a good choice," said Mrs. Ellersby, clapping her hands. "It sounds _so_ fine."

"Olympus was the home of the Gods," said Mr. Wimsey, and there was laughter in his eyes. "I wonder if Miss Theodosia is trying to tell me something."

Tess flushed a bright red and her sisters laughed. She had not meant to suggest anything—anything of _that_ sort! Mr. Eustis saw her discomfort and he rescued her.

"I am sure Miss Tess did not mean to suggest anything so blasphemous as what you think, Wimsey," he said, waggling his finger, his face a caricature of the prudish minister. "And as long as we are speaking of Greeks, why not 'Corinthian House?' Corinth was founded by the Sun God, according to myth—and Biblically, there is not any verse better than first Corinthians. It is time for Scripture study, girls—can you recite me the passage I mean?"

"Love is something, love is something-or-other," said Hetty, with a wave of her hand, and they all laughed.

"It is patient," said Freddie, "I remember that."

"And kind," added Sophy.

"And there is a bit about faith, hope, and charity, too—I remember!"

"But the greatest of these is love," reminded Mr. Eustis.

"Love never fails," said Mr. Wimsey, and he smiled at the four Darcy daughters, and offered his arm to Sophy his other to Freddie, and led them into the dining room for supper. The rest of the party followed, and they made a merry meal.


	6. Matters Matrimonial

"When Mr. Wimsey and I are married," Sophy said, "I shall wear a gown of pale ivory velvet, with pearls in my hair and we shall dine every night in full evening dress."

"Mr. Wimsey would soon tire of that," sniffed Freddie contemptuously. "When Mr. Wimsey and _I_ are married we will never stand on ceremony. We will travel the Continent and go to Egypt and Africa and even the Americas. And I shall wear riding breeches whenever I please."

"Mr. Wimsey will not want a dowd for a wife," Hetty cried. "He will want a wife like _me_, who dresses with distinction and according to fashion. He is much too important a man for anything else."

In the dark of the room she shared with her sisters, Tess held her tongue. She tried very hard to imagine Mr. Wimsey with Sophy, in evening dress—with Freddie on his arm, in breeches—exclaiming over Hetty's latest hat. She could not imagine any of these things. In fact, she did not think that Mr. Wimsey would marry any of her sisters—_could_ marry any of her sisters.

"It is a shame about Mr. Eustis," remarked Hetty, wiggling her cold toes against her sister's warm ones. "He is quite affable, but he cannot hold a candle to his friend. Of course ministers are very poor, and cannot afford to dress well, but I cannot help thinking how nice Mr. Eustis would look if he had a new frock-coat, in a pale dove gray…he would almost be handsome, don't you think?"

Tess felt that she must defend her friend. "I think Mr. Eustis _is_ handsome. And he is perfectly agreeable in manner and mood. He will make some woman a very good husband one day."

"I should heartily dislike to be a minister's wife," said Henrietta staunchly, and went to sleep.

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Within a week the residents of Pemberley and Wimsey Woods—or Corinth Hall, as it was now being called, the sign had been re-painted and hung—considered themselves the best of acquaintances; a week after that, and they were friends. There were several more supper parties between the estates, and an impromptu night of dancing, and a hayride over Pemberley grounds, which ruined Hetty's new velvet slippers, but which everyone else thought charmingly rustic.

"This is just the kind of life that I ere longed for," Mr. Wimsey breathed, as they rattled along through the woods. "Smell the air! There is woodsmoke—and frost—and dying fir. One did not smell anything in London but the street and the sewer. Or, in my warehouse, tobacco, a not unpleasant odor, but all the same, there was no room to smell anything but. I reeked of tobacco from morning to night."

"Father thinks tobacco is a terrible trade," said Tess, before she thought. "Oh! I did not mean to speak so plainly, you must forgive me, Mr. Wimsey!"

"It is quite all right," said Mr. Wimsey, "I think it rather awful myself. It was quite an accident that I should have even become involved in it. My father began the business, and I never took much interest in it. But then he died, and I inherited it. I was glad when I sold it last year. You see, Miss Theodosia—"

"Oh, _do_ call me Tess!"

"Miss Tess, then; I have other plans for my career. I will stay in trade, I believe—but I would rather deal in the shipment of coffee."

"Coffee!"

"Yes—it is widely drunk throughout the Americas and on the Continent. I believe one day it will be as popular a drink as tea—every household in England will drink coffee morning, noon, and night."

"I don't know," said Tess, a little doubtfully, for she could not imagine anything taking the place of tea.

Mr. Wimsey reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and drew out a small glass phial, containing some brown grains at the bottom. He pulled the stopper out and passed it to Tess. "Put this to you nose," he said, and she did, and sniffed, cautiously.

"It is the most intriguing scent," Tess cried, amazed, and sniffed again. "It does not smell like any coffee I have ever smelled before. It is almost—intoxicating."

"That is because it is a special blend, that I devised myself, grown on my plantation in India," said Mr. Wimsey, sniffing himself, and then putting the phial away in his pocket. "It is an early crop—it must cure and age for a year, and then we will bring it to England."

"I am sure you will be very successful," Tess said, and she meant it and that night she dreamt of fields and fields of coffee trees under an Indian moon, the spicy scent wafting up and into her dreams.

By the end of the month even Mr. Darcy admitted that Throckmorton Wimsey was not as stupid a man as he had first supposed.

"You think anyone very nice must be stupid," said Elizabeth Darcy.

"It is because I have so little experience with nice people," said her husband, and she pinched him. "No, Lizzy, it is well to joke—but Wimsey will make one of our girls a fine husband, though as of yet, I have no idea whom it will be. Tess—come here—and tell us, which of your sisters do you think will be Mr. Wimsey?"

"I am sure it will not be Hetty," said Tess. "She is not as fond of Mr. Wimsey as she was in the beginning, and besides, I am sure he thinks her too young. I suppose it will be Sophy or Freddie. He likes to talk with Freddie, and I believe he appreciates her quick wit and her eccentricity. But Sophy is more beautiful, and when they were at Cornith Hall yesterday Mr. Wimsey was most attentive to her. Freddie was in a sulk; she said that Sophy monopolised him, and that Mr. Wimsey did not say two words to _her_ for the entire meal."

"The odds are for Sophy, then," said Mr. Darcy to his wife. "But Lizzy, I am worried; when they talk it does not seem that they every speak of anything very meaningful. Sophy is all smiles and coquetry, and Wimsey is full of compliments and snips of poetry. How can they make a happy marriage on giggles and rhyme?"

"More than one happy marriage has been founded on less than that."

"True—but Lizzy, I want better than that for our girls."

"Sophy is not married _yet_," Elizabeth cried, laughing. "She is not even engaged. There is plenty of time to worry, and for now, you must stop thinking of your daughters' matrimonial chances, and come here, for it will not do to forget that you are married yourself."


	7. Two Letters

The first of November brought a flurry of snow and bitter cold, and a letter from Corinth Hall, which was not unexpected, as there had been many letters from Corinth Hall to Pemberley in the past weeks. By itself it was not an occurrence, but at closer look it was, for _this_ note was different in that it was not addressed to Miss Darcy, Miss Frederica, Miss Henrietta and Miss Tess, but to Miss Darcy alone. Wilson brought it during breakfast on the tray and Sophy grabbed at it eagerly.

"It is from Mrs. Ellersby—she wants me to come up and spend the day at Corinth Hall—all by myself, too, Freddie, and how do you like that?"

"I don't believe it!" Freddie cried, and jumped up, and tore at the page. "Oh, oh—it is too mean! She can't mean _only_ you—Wilson! Wilson, was there another note? One addressed to me?"

Wilson said that there wasn't, and Freddie became crestfallen.

Sophy picked up her fork and ate the rest of her breakfast with a smile on her face. "I suppose this means Mr. Wimsey has made his choice," she said, loftily. "I shall wear my new blue gown from Aunt Lydia and my silk slippers, and my cashmere spencer coat."

"Indeed you shall not wear the gown from Aunt Lydia," said Mrs. Darcy. "It is far too low for an afternoon party."

"When I am Mrs. Wimsey, I will wear all of my dresses low," said Sophy with delight. "Mamma, do not bother with the carriage, I will ride to Cornith Hall."

"Wrong again!" cried her mother. "You will go in the carriage and there will be no further argument, for it is certain to rain later and I will not have you catch your death of cold."

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Lady Atherton was in a pique. There were many things that could cause her to fly into one; she was a very excitable woman. If her husband did not do just exactly as she said, she became hysteric, and a death of gossip could express her spirits to no end. The worst of all things was if someone showed up at a fete wearing a the same dress as she had, or even one very similar—women who were new in town began to ask their dressmakers to be very careful. If the Lady Atherton had a green dress, nobody dared wear green for the rest of the season and well on into the next.

Today Lady Atherton—_nee_ Caroline Bingley—was very put out indeed, but it had nothing to do with dresses or gossip, and her husband was behaving himself, so it was not that. Today's annoyance came in the form of a letter. "I cannot believe it," she said, in a tone of incredulity, to her step-son, Andrew. "Here Mrs. Ellerby writes that Mr. Wimsey—_our_ Mr. Wimsey—is getting to be _very_ friendly with the Darcys, of Pemberley!"

Andrew Atherton did not need to ask who were the Darcys of Pemberley; from the time of his childhood, when his father had first married Miss Bingley, they had become a constant presence in his life—though he had never met any Darcys to speak of he felt as though he knew them intimately, he had heard of them so much. It was a not-very-carefully guarded secret that Lord Bosworth Atherton had not been Miss Bingley's first pick. He was many years older than her and he had two sons from his first marriage, and moreover, he had loved his first wife, which was a very unsavory disposition, as far as most second wives were concerned. Some intrepid souls even went so far to suggest that Caro Bingley had married Atherton solely for his money and position—which was not far off the mark—and everyone, including Atherton himself, knew that her heart had been set on Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, and anything after him could only be a consolation.

Andrew did not like his stepmother overmuch—but it was easier to be around her when she was pleased, and she was looking at him expectantly, now, as though she wanted him to say something, so he did. "Why should it matter if Mr. Wimsey associates with any of the Darcys of Pemberley?" he wondered.

"Because," said Lady Atherton emphatically, "When Mrs. Ellersby writes that he is association with Darcys she means that he is associating with the Darcy _daughters_. Specifically Sophronia Darcy—or Sophy, I'm told they call her, what a horrid common name!"

"And why should that matter if Wimsey is associating with Sophronia, or Sophy, or whomever she is?"

"My dear boy," said Lady Atherton coldly, in a tone that suggested Andrew was not very dear at all, "You must have known for some time that Mr. Wimsey has been a favorite of our darling Phoenecia."

Phoenecia was Andrew's half-sister, his father and Miss Bingley's only child together; she was seventeen and very cross, Andrew thought, and when she was cross she resembled her mother so much that Andrew thought he knew exactly what Phoenecia would be when she grew up, and he pitied her. His stepmother was not a beautiful woman but she was tolerable—Phoenecia did not have to fear for her appearance. It was more that she was feared to the point of friendlessness, which seemed a very lonely life. Andrew was not fond of his sister but he did to think of her going through her life unliked by anyone, chiefly because then her care would likely fall to him.

"This is all Eliza Darcy's doings," said Lady Atherton, casting the letter aside. "I have no doubt that she smelt money and position, and encouraged her daughters to make up to Mr. Wimsey in whatever way she could. She is a climber, you know, and she has passed it on to her daughters. Her family came from nothing—_nothing_—her father was barely a gentleman and no word has yet been coined to describe her mother. I am ashamed that my brother—my very dear own brother!—could have lowered himself to marry one of those..._Bennets_."

Andrew felt a little rill of anger; he was rather fond his Uncle Bingley and his wife, and did not like to hear them talked of in such a manner.

"Oh, what shall I tell Phoeny?" Lady Atherton cried. "She is such a delicate, feeling child. I have horrors of what this will do to her health, which as you know, has never been very good. She will sob her little heart out, the dear girl."

Andrew thought that Phoeny was much more likely to claw somebody's eyes out, but he did not say.

Indeed, Phoenecia spent the rest of the day—and many days following—in a pique that matched her mother's—surpassed it, even. She would not leave her room and when anyone came to try and tempt her out of it, she screamed. She spent the night moaning in a pathetic way: "Wimsey—my dear Wimsey—lost forever!"

Andrew thought it very affected, since, in his estimation, Phoeny and Wimsey had not been so very close, and whatever relationship had existed between them had been purely hopeful, and on Phoeny's part. He decided he could not stay in the house a moment longer and the next morning he told his stepmother and father that he would like to go away for a while.

"I knew you would say so!" Lady Atherton cried. "And it is all arranged, my dear boy, everything is arranged, and you must go at once to Derbyshire!"

Andrew was puzzled; he had thought he would visit an old school friend in Kent. "Derbyshire?" he asked.

"Why, yes, dear boy—you must go at once. Mrs. Ellersby is expecting you."

"Forgive me—but _what_ will I be doing whilst in Derbyshire?"

"Why, don't you know?" Lady Atherton seemed shocked. "You will make friends with the Darcys—you will pull Sophy Darcy out of our Wimsey's clutches—and then he will be free for our Phoenecia. As it should be."

Andrew recoiled at the idea. "And if I decided to go to Kent instead?"

Lady Atherton looked at her husband meaningfully.

"Then," stammered Lord Atheton, and his shoulders slumped. "You know how it is, boy. You go or—or I'll have to cut you off, financially."

Andrew's eyes darkened. The monthly allowance he received provided his livelihood; it was money he had inherited from his mother and he felt it was very wrong of his father to touch it. But, he reminded himself, this was not his father's idea. He glared at his stepmother, who hid her eyes behind a peacock feather fan.

He would have no choice but to go to Derbyshire, but even if he did, it was all so farfetched!

"What if I fail?" he wondered. "What if Sophy Darcy takes one look at me and goes screaming for the hills?"

Lady Atherton picked up her pug and set him on her lap. She petted him sweetly for a few moments, a little smile playing on her lips. She said, "You are a handsome boy, Andrew, and you can be quite charming when you want to be. You must not fail."

Andrew saw that it was useless to say anything else. He would be leaving for Derbyshire in the morning on this ridiculous mission, but he promised himself he would not succeed in it. He would not say a word to Sophy Darcy—he would not do a thing to separate her from Mr. Wimsey—he would not even look at her, no matter how pretty she was! They could make him go, but they could not _make_ him do what they wanted. He would go, he would pass a few weeks in the country, maybe do some hunting, since the season was on. At the end of it he would come home and by then Phoenecia would have found some other bachelor to sink her claws into. Yes—that is exactly how it would play out in the end. And, Andrew reminded himself, there were three other Darcy girls besides Sophy—perhaps he would even fall in love with one of them.

He smiled, and his stepmother frowned, to see it. Andrew bowed, and went out and told his butler to pack his trunk. He found that he was whistling as he got his papers in order. At the very least, he would get out of this horrible house, and that in itself would be a blessed relief!


	8. Mr Wimsey Speaks

"I met the most ridiculous man at Wim—at _Corinth_ Hall today," said Sophy, coming into the parlour, where her sisters had gathered by the fire. Hetty was peeping into a hand-mirror, tying up her hair into a Psyche knot; her mouth was full of pins, and she could not respond. Freddie was lying on the sofa filling page after page with thick black writing, a letter to her cousin Raleigh away at school, which she refused to show anyone, and she did not deign to recognize that her sister had spoken at all. So it fell to Tess to make the inquiry:

"Who was he?"

"A most perplexing fellow," said Sophy, pulling up a cushion and falling into it. "At first he was perfectly nice to me—he smiled—but then when Mrs. Ellersby introduced us, he went cold and grave and he stopped talking and moved away, and played cards with Mr. Ellersby. We had been in the middle of a conversation and just like that, he did not want to talk to me any more. _What_ do you make of that? I tried to talk to him again during supper and he _ignored_ me. Me! It was the very height of rudeness and I am sure everyone felt it, too. I hope you never are made to mix with him, though his father _is_ a baronet. His name is Andrew Atherton. Isn't that a _horrid_ name?"

"Atherton!" cried Mrs. Darcy, coming into the room to investigate. "I know a family of Athertons—the father isn't Bruno Atherton—is he?"

"That is just his name," Sophy affirmed.

"Indeed—I know them!" Mrs. Darcy shook her head. "Darcy! Darcy, come here! Sophy has met Caro Bingley's step-son; he is staying at Cornith Hall, as a guest."

"And will be for some time," said Sophy unhappily. "Oh, I do not relish meeting him again!"

"I should be interested to meet him," Darcy said. "I remember him as a black-browed little boy when Caro married the baron; he must be twenty-six or –seven now. He seemed a very good-natured chap, then; but I suppose twenty years of living with Caroline Bingley would be rough on anyone."

"His disposition is perfectly ghastly, Papa. When Mr. Eustis remarked that I was looking very pretty today, Mr. Atherton sniffed. _Sniffed_!"

"And how did you find Mr. Wimsey?" Darcy wondered.

"_And_ this Atherton fellow—Mr. Wimsey? What about him?"

"Nothing—except a polite inquiry as to his health."

"Oh, his health is fine." Sophy waved a dismissive hand, and then brightened. "He is very busy at the moment but he told me that he hopes to come and see you in a week or so, Papa, for a little chat."

The Darcy parents exchanged a look—they knew what it meant. A chat! And so did the girls. Freddie burst into tears, and ran from the room, clutching her papers to her chest. Hetty looked at Sophy wondrously, and even Tess felt a peculiar stirring in her breast that she could not place. She told herself that she was only a little sad—Sophy would not be Sophy Darcy for very much longer!

"I should be happy," she told herself, and she wanted to be, but that little ache was there, and it troubled her for the rest of the day.

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Mr. Wimsey was as punctual as a timepiece—it was another of his virtues—and exactly a week to the day later he came to Pemberley and was ushered in to Mr. Darcy's library. The two men were in there for a very long while and the sisters—_sans _Freddie, who had gone out riding, despite the cold—crowded around the door, trying to hear.

"Footsteps!" Hetty exclaimed. "Go, Sophy, go!" Sophy ran upstairs and the door opened and Darcy peered down at his daughters.

"Go and get Sophy," he said. "And tell her not to wear so much perfume, next time; I could smell it through the door and it quite gave her away. Mr. Wimsey wants to speak with her—alone."

Sophy, who had been lurking just out of sight but still within earshot did not need to be 'gotten.' She stepped forward tremblingly and her father caught her in his arms.

"I don't want to spoil the surprise," he said, "But Mr. Wimsey is going to ask you to marry him, Sophy. I have told him that he might, if that is what you want. _Do_ contrive to look amazed when he asks you. I'd hate to start things on the wrong foot with my own son-in-law."

Ah! Here it was—_here_ was the moment—the thing that Sophy had wanted was going to be. She looked radiant, and her eyes were like stars—but Tess thought that she looked a little afraid, too, s\mewhere underneath. Her lips shook and great fat tears welled in her eyes. Mr. Darcy used his fingers to wipe them away.

"For heaven's sake, no crying," he told her sternly. "Freddie will be doing enough of that for a household."

Sophy composed herself and shook her head and made a deep breath and then she went into the library, closing the door behind her. Hetty moved in toward the door again but Darcy took her by the arm, and Tess by the other, and moved them away. Tess looked at his face and for the first time noticed the silvery hairs in his side-burns and her heart gave a strong thump and she bit her lip.

"I really did think it would be Freddie in the end," Darcy sighed. "Well, your mother owes me a half-crown—and speaking of your mother, I must go and tell her the news. Be good girls, and leave Sophy and Mr. Wimsey alone. No eavesdropping."

"I cannot believe it," said Hetty, when their father had gone. "Sophy is going to be Mrs. Wimsey. Mrs. Throckmorton…does Wimsey have a second name? Mrs. Throckmorton Q. Wimsey. Oh, Tess, they will be married and we won't be four Darcy daughters anymore. We will be three."

"_Don't_," said Tess, feeling choked. Hetty wandered away into the kitchen to talk things over with Cook, but Tess felt she could not move. She stood rooted to the spot. How cold it was, here in the hallway! How long were Sophy and Mr. Wimsey in the library. How long did it take to make a proposal of marriage? Was he kissing her, lowering his lips down to her cheek—her throat? She broke out in gooseflesh at the thought. She did not want to be here, anymore. Blinded by tears she ran for the stairs—and ran right into Mr. Wimsey.

_Brother_ Wimsey, she thought. Soon it would be what she would have to call him.

Mr. Wimsey said, "Sophy is in the library crying her eyes out. She is perilously close to waterlogging an antiquarian folio of _Twelfth Night_."

Tess lifted her eyes. Sophy—crying? When she should be the happiest girl in Christendom! "She—she didn't say no?"

"No—no—quite the contrary. She has accepted me. She has consented to become my wife, Miss—but I suppose I might leave the Miss off, now, mayn't I? Tess, then—and you are crying, too. Are you all right?"

"Oh, yes," sobbed Tess. "I am—so—_happy_. I will just—miss—Sophy dreadfully, is all."

"Well, she will be right across the way. She won't go away from you."

Tess had not stopped to consider that. Of course it was true. Sophy and Wimsey would live right across the lake—they would see them often—the two families would mix frequently. How Mamma and Papa would enjoy it. She said, "Oh—I am so _glad_."

For a moment Wimsey's fingers tightened on Tess's arms. "_Are_ you?" he wondered, and there was a brief moment when his eyes swept her face. Tess felt her heart pounding and wondered if he could feel it—he was holding her so close.

She breathed, "Of course I am. Why shouldn't I be?" She tried to smile. She said it again: "I am so happy for you—" the word would not come but she willed it, "_Brother_ Wimsey. May—may I kiss the happy bridegroom?"

"No," said Wimsey, in surprisingly strong tones. He pulled away and raked his fingers through his curls. He said, "The thing is done—I've _asked_ her. It is done, it is fixed, and now I find—and _now_ I find—"

Tess thought it sounded like he was talking to himself; as though he had forgotten she was there. But then his eyes swept over her again and he looked sad, so sad, that she wanted to put her hand out to him. But Wimsey pulled away again.

He said, "What a fool I am!"

And then he took his hat and left, without another word, without a bow—without even a backward glance.


	9. A Family Row

"A toast!" Mr. Darcy said, "To our eldest daughter, Sophy, and her husband-to-be, the very elegantly named Throckmorton Wimsey—Sophy," Mr. Darcy set down his glass and looked around the room. "Where _is_ Mr. Wimsey?"

Sophy, pink-eyed, shook her head, mutely; it was Tess who said, "He had to go, Papa—I believe it was something urgent."

"It had better have been urgent," growled Darcy. "I have spent the past eighteen years composing this speech—'Things to Say on the Occasion of Your Daughter's Marrying a Man Named Throckmorton'—and it was quite good, if I say so myself. No matter—I shall save it for Freddie's betrothal. I suppose the name might be changed. She must not marry and Edward or a Thomas, though: the name must be slightly magnificent or the speech falls apart. Speaking of the devil—where is Freddie? Does anybody know?"

"Here I am," said Freddie from the doorway and they all turned. She was wearing her dark green riding habit and carrying an ancient tricorn hat in her hand. She smelled of horse and cold, and her boots were full of mud. Wilson came and worriedly offered her a towel, but Freddie used it instead to mop her face and brow.

"Phew!" she cried. "I am all a mess—Pony and I went over the fields, through the woods. Oh, Wilson, I have snagged my skirt jumping the turnstile but I do not expect you to mend it; if you lay out needle and thread I shall do it myself. What is everyone standing around for? Is that cider in your cups? I should love some, if it is. Has something happened?"

"Freddie," Sophy said, "Mr. Wimsey has been to Pemberley today—to ask me to marry him. And I've accepted."

The changes that went over Freddie's face at that moment—the feelings, the moods—flashed like quicksilver. First she looked awed and amazed—second, disbelieving—then she looked confused, as the words sank into her consciousness. Finally her brow lowered—Tess reflected she looked quite like Papa in one of his infrequent tempers. Her eyes flashed stormily and she reached forward like lightning, grabbed the glass from her sister's hand, and threw its contents into Sophy's face!

"That is my toast for you and _Mr. Wimsey_," she cried, in a hateful voice. "And here is my wish for you: May you be as happy together always as I am in this very moment!"

"Freddie!" cried Mrs. Darcy, shocked. But Sophy was laughing—albeit in a sarcastic way; they all watched, transfixed, as she put her finger to her pretty little chin and pretended to ruminate on something.

"To the victor go the spoils," she said, thoughtfully, as though Freddie had never thrown a drink at her, as though shining droplets of cider were not caught over her face and hair. "That _is_ how the saying goes, isn't it? What I've always wondered is what do the _losers_ get? Do you know, Freddie? 'To the victor go the spoils'—and to the loser…well, I suppose the loser gets—nothing!"

"Sophy!" Their mother was aghast at such a mean-spirited speech.

But neither seemed to hear her.

"I want to say this to you," said Freddie, low and threateningly. "Mr. Wimsey might have been enchanted by your face and hands and hair and smile, but you are _stupid, _Sophy! Oh, no, do not misunderstand me! I do not mean that you are ignorant. You have a keen quick mind—somewhere under there, I suppose—but you have not tended it, or cultivated it. You think nothing, you do not challenge yourself. And so you are _stupid_. One day you will be a saggy old bag, your looks will have quite gone—and Mr. Wimsey will _hate_ you, because you will have nothing to offer him."

Sophy slapped Freddie full across the face.

It echoed like a huntsman's shot across the draft marble hall, and a red rose bloomed swiftly and dangerously on Freddie's cheek. She put her hand up to it, wonderingly, but only for a second, for in the next she had launched herself at Sophy, slapped her resoundingly, and pulled her hair.

Sophy used her white teeth to take a large bite at Freddie's arm.

It was all commotion—Freddie screamed—Hetty began to whoop which signaled that soon she would be in a full-on faint—Sophy scratched out with her nails—Mr. Darcy and Mrs. Darcy were trying to separate them. They succeeded, holding the girls away from each other. Mr. Darcy, who had Freddie by the shoulders, turned her quickly around and applied a spanking to her skirted rear. Then he stalked across the room to Sophy and did the same to her. Sophy began to cry.

"This is _my_ happy day," she wept. "And now it is ruined!"

"It is ruined because you could not find it in your heart to be gracious in your victory," snapped Darcy, out of patience, now. "And _you_," he turned to Freddie, "Could not rise above your defeat. I am half a mind to go and tell Mr. Wimsey that all bets are off. I am back to my original opinion of him; I wish that he had never come to Derbyshire. My daughters—Sophronia and Frederica _Darcy_—brawling with each other, as though you were no more than jealous kitchenmaids!"

Freddie started to say something, but her father covered her mouth with his hand.

"Go upstairs," he said, and when both girls turned he caught Sophy by the sash of her dress. "Not you. You shall be spending the night in the guest room. I will not have another disturbance tonight."

Freddie's face was tear-streaked, and there were faint pink scratches on it where Sophy had found purchase with her skin. She said, in a small voice, "I _am_ sorry, Mamma—Papa, but," and she turned to Sophy, "I will not say sorry to you!"

"I am sorry _for_ you," said Sophy, nastily, reaching out for her sister's skirt as she passed. Darcy jerked her away, and said, quite clearly and with feeling:

"Damn that Mr. Wimsey!"

xxxxxxxxx

"What are we to do, Lizzy?" wondered Darcy, in the safety of their bedchamber. One of his daughters was weeping her heart out in her room; one was sobbing away in the guest chambers. After the fight had ended Hetty had deemed it safe for hysterics and it had taken a long time to quiet her down. Only Tess, Darcy reflected, had kept any semblance of order and good sense, running to get water for her sister's face, going to knock quietly on Freddie's door before whispering to Sophy through hers. Thank goodness for Tess! But Darcy's joy in her could not quiet the worry he was feeling over the others.

"What shall we do?" he wondered again, to his wife, who was sitting at her desk writing something in a small, neat hand. How she could write at such a time he did not know; he felt like having a large brandy—quite a bit larger than the medicinal amount they had given Hetty to quiet her nerves.

"I suppose there is only one thing we can do," mused Darcy, "And that is to send Sophy away for a while."

"Not Sophy," said his wife, still writing. "She is only just engaged; it will cause a scandal to no end if we packed her off, now."

"You are right," Darcy surmised. "We must send Frederica, then. I suppose she could go to Georgiana in France…"

Elizabeth sprang up from her desk, her letter finished. "Here I have just written a letter to my dear Jane in London," she said, "Though it hardly needs writing: I know she will agree to have Freddie for a few weeks; we might send her as soon as the day after tomorrow."

"It is settled, then," said Darcy, "But dash it, Lizzy, it feels unfair. The girl has had her heart broken—to send her away on top of that seems overly cruel. I cannot help but feel for her; and really, I had expected more from Sophy—it is easier to be gracious when you have won the battle than lost it. And it was really Sophy who started the fight when she slapped Freddie."

"I had thought of that, too," said Lizzy, "Which I why I wrote to Jane that we would send Hetty and Tess along, too. Freddie will not be in _such_ low spirits when she has her sisters around her. And while they are gone Sophy and I can have a few meaningful talks about the changes she will have to make to her behavior if she is going to be a successful wife."

"You have thought of everything," Darcy marveled, and put his arms around her, and looked up at her admiringly.

"It is why you love me," said his wife.


	10. To London

"Oh, my dear girls

"Oh, my dear girls!" cried Jane Bingley, running down the walk to greet the three Darcy daughters who were, just at the moment, being unhanded from the carriage. "My dear Eliza's dear girls—how glad I am that you have come!"

From her effusive greeting one would never think that one-third of the Darcy contingent had been sent away because of heartbreak and—worse than that—violence against her own sister; to Mrs. Bingley, they were as welcome in her home today as they would have been any day of the week, any month of the year. She adored her sister—they had always been close—she adored Darcy—she adored her nieces. In fact, Jane Bingley adored any person of good character and gentle demeanor that she came into contact with; but she _really_ adored her dear Lizzy's and her dear Darcy's little girls, in a way that she did not adore her sister Kitty's boy or her sister Mary's daughters.

"How tired you look!" cried Mrs. Bingley, now. "But how beautiful! Freddie, your hair is so becoming, I believe they are wearing it that way in Paris this season. And Hetty, those shoes!" Hetty turned her ankle side to side to show off the high-heeled slippers she had persuaded her father to buy her, after much tears and wheedling."

"And Tess, you are as sweet as you have ever been, I can tell," pronounced Aunt Jane. "Beth will be beside herself when she sees that you are here. _Do_ come in, my dears, do. Cook has been busy all morning, and we have such a luncheon made for you!"

The Bingley's lived in Mayfair Park, which Mr. Darcy had remarked on more than one occasion was a charmless place, but once inside of the Bingley house, a better word than 'charming' could not be found to describe it. It lacked all of the glittering glamour of neighboring homes; the furniture was comfortable and finely kept; a fire burnt continually; and hunting prints were scattered over the walls, interspersed with portraits of old Bingley and Bennet ancestors—there was even a fine pastel of Grandpapa Bennet, looking very grave, but with a twinkle in his eye and a jaunty frill of whisker around his head. The best part of Bingley House was that nothing ever changed there; it was just the same as they remembered, but not a bit shabby or out-moded.

A little girl, about eleven, came down to greet them in a joyous way; it was Beth, dear Beth, their little cousin. The girls made a show of her and all said how pretty she had become, and how much she'd grown, and darling Beth spoke to them in French, she had been in a lesson and now her governess was steering her back up to the school-room, she leaned over the banister and implored them not to speak of anything important until she came down again for tea and could hear it, too. Uncle Bingley's dogs, not cultured pugs or spaniels, but large, bounding retrievers jumped all over them, leaving paw-prints on their dresses, but even Hetty did not mind, and patted them quite nicely. And what a surprise they had when they went into the parlour! Raleigh, their eldest cousin, was here, and not at Cambridge! He was delighted to see them; he had been sick; they had thought it was typhoid but it wasn't, and he was on the mend, now. The girls were aghast that they had not been told of the seriousness of his condition but Aunt Jane waved her hand and said it was nothing, they did not want to cause a bother or fuss.

Freddie, who had always been very fond of her cousin, burst into tears, and Raleigh was made to do a cartwheel, very nearly knocking over a priceless vase, to show her he was not dying, not anywhere close to it.

"Oh, I am so glad," Freddie sobbed. "I should not be able to bear—that—with everything else."

They all went to the table and the girls ate voraciously, their appetites stimulated by the journey, and Aunt Jane ran through everyone she knew in the neighborhood, all members of the family and their friends, asking about their health, their moods, their friends and their families, until she had finally exhausted every single resident of Derbyshire and more besides. Freddie's lip trembled again as she pushed her plate away. She said,

"Oh Aunt Jane—I am so ashamed—you know why I have been sent here—"

"There is nothing to be ashamed about," said Aunt Jane sternly, "And I will not tolerate any tears. Do be happy, Freddie; I know you have been disappointed but it has given us all a chance to see each other again, and I have such a surprise for you; tomorrow night, after you are quite settled in, we go to Almack's—look, I have vouchers for all of you to go and dance, and it will take everyone's mind off of every unpleasant thing in the world!"

The girls marveled at the vouchers, they were more sought after than gold by the London _ton_, and Tess thought that Aunt Jane must have had to pull quite a few strings to get them, for though the Bingleys were wonderful, they did not 'keep' with the London _ton_, and their carefree, genial existences were considered very boring. The very idea of going to Almack's Assembly Rooms, for dinner and—oh, ghastly!—dancing made her quake but for Aunt Jane's sake she smiled and said she would be delighted to go.

"_I_ will stay with Raleigh," said Freddie. "I could not bear to leave him all alone when we have gone out to have a good time."

"No, you will not," said Aunt Jane. "Raleigh needs peace and rest and I am quite eager to show you off, Frederica; you must come, otherwise we will not have nearly as good a time as we should."

So the Darcy daughters were installed at Bingley House, Mayfair Park, London, with much to look forward to, and spirits that were buoyed up for the first time since Sophy had become engaged to Mr. Wimsey.

xxxxxxxxx

The news of their being in town had spread very quickly, for that very afternoon came a sheaf of cards, and even a few visitors, who wanted to greet Mr. Darcy's daughters in person. The Countess de Lieven sent a bouquet of hothouse roses for the girls to wear to the ball the next night, and a note that she had penned herself, asking if 'dear Fitzwilliam's' girls would join her for a walk in Vauxhall Gardens while they were in town. It was a marvelous thing, that note, and it was passed around to every subsequent visitor, all of whom were very impressed by it.

In the late afternoon—perilously close to supper time—a small dark woman in a sparkling turban climbed the stairs and rang the bell. "Mrs. George Wickham," announced the butler, and Mrs. Bingley murmured, "Oh, dear," so softly that only Tess could hear. She said in a louder voice, "Show her in, Peters."

"Very good, mum," Peters said, bowing, but his words were drowned out by the lively chatter that filled the room; its unbroken stream indicated that Mrs. Wickham must have been chattering incessantly since she arrived.

"Lizzy's girls!" she cried. "Oh, it is so good that you have come, don't you think, Jane? I have often wondered why you girls do not come more often; I think you cannot like us very much, you are here so infrequently. But I knew it would be once Lizzy married 'up'—her children would be too good for us, that is what I told Mamma. And she died thinking the same thing, it was a great pain to her, every time she spoke of it her eyes filled up with tears and she wept into my shoulder. Henrietta, how you have grown…oh, _you_ are not Henrietta, you are Tess. Do you ever go by Theodosia? It is a pity you do not, I abhor nicknames, and Tess is so common, so plain—really, it is a milkmaid's name."

"Do sit down, Lydia," said Aunt Jane. She suddenly seemed very tired.

"I believe I shall," said Aunt Lydia, and plopped into the biggest chair by the fire.

She was a tiny wren of a woman, almost wizened-seeming, and aged beyond her years, though her eyes were dark in her face. Tess supposed it must have aged her, to have Uncle Wickham dying so tragically as he did. Dueling was illegal, now, and had been when he had been killed all those years ago. It had been in all the papers and Aunt Lydia had had some celebrity from it; a wealthy patroness had taken her under her wing and when she died, Aunt Lydia had received some of her fortune. But there were rumors that she squandered it, made some bad investments, which could explain why she seemed slightly shabby, and smudged around the edges, as though her clothes were not as neat as they could be. She poured herself a cup of tea and drank it in one gulp and then sat up and surveyed her nieces with a hawk-like eye.

"Now, tell me _all_ the news. Frederica, I heard through the grape-vine that you had eloped—_have_ you? I do so love an elopement, when it is successful, but yours must not have been, or else you would not be here. Too bad! The next time you try it, you must call on me, and I will aid you. I do not believe in old people standing in the way of young people and their romances. Your father has been awfully stodgy in that regard; I remember how he tried to separate me and Wickham when we ran away, but ha, ha! He was too late, there was nothing he could do! Henrietta, that is a marvelous amazing gown you are wearing, though I wonder at Lizzy for letting you wear it. She was always so plain, but you are not, I see that you have inherited _my_ fashion sense. It must be such a trial, having daughters who surpass you in looks, poor Lizzy, I am glad I never tried it myself. Tess, how quiet you are! You have not said one word to me. You, I suppose, are quite in awe of my new hat; it is nothing like you have seen before, I expect."

Upon which Tess reflected that it was not.

Lydia poured another cup of tea and helped herself to a scone and looked around the room. At once she seemed to realize that something was missing and she sat up, her mouth falling open in surprise—and crumbs falling from it down the front of her dress.

"But where is my dear Sophy?" she wondered. "Oh, how I wish she had come! I am very fond of all of you girls, you know, but I am sure it will not come as a shock to learn that Sophy is nearest to my heart. It happens that way in families, there is always the favorite, just as I was my Mamma's and Lizzy was Papa's, and Freddie is her father's and Tess is Lizzy's. It is all quite natural, anything else is a myth. I should have adored seeing Sophy above all others. She wrote to me that she was engaged, I had the note this morning, and I should so have liked to see her in town, to help her pick out her trousseau. But Darcy has never liked me; we cannot be popular with everyone, all of the time! It is my lot, and I do not mind it. I have heaps of friends, and I do not like such serious people. I wonder that Lizzy can stand it. Lord, is that really the hour, on that clock there? You can never be sure with these little antiquarian things, they are so unreliable. How time flies—I have plans to eat with Mrs. Durnell tonight. It is a little fete in my honor, it is my birth-day next week, you know, and I will be thirty-five—again! That last bit is secret, you must never tell anyone. But you would not, you are _dear_ girls. You must come and see sometime but not tomorrow, for I have heard you will be at Almack's. I never go—there are those who say that it is because I cannot get vouchers but that is not the truth; I do not prefer such a restrictive atmosphere, and that is the reason I am never there. Well! Here is a kiss for you—and you, and you—and you Jane, and give _this_ to Bingley and _this_ to Beth and but there is not one forRaleigh, who I saw run into the drawing room when I was coming up the walk. It was very bad of him. It will not deny it hurt my feelings, but boys must have their little jokes. My, it has been so fun, talking things over with you sweet girls! I cannot wait until we do it again. Goodbye!"

And she was gone, as quickly as she had come. The Darcy daughters sat blinking at one another and Aunt Jane looked quite exhausted by it all.


	11. A Friend at Almack's

At Almack's Tess was frightened by the positive crush of people; there was barely any room to turn her shoulders, and bodies were packed close in around her. Tess was rather small, and the effect was like walking through a dense forest of human trees, each tree crowded upon the next, and choking out the light. And this was only the ante-room!

It was not quite so grand as Tess had expected, with all of the talks about vouchers and Society; the place was built in the Palladian style, and was rather unassuming from outside. In, it might have been very fine, if she had been able to see anything!

"Girls," shouted Aunt Jane, over the din—the only time any of them could recall Aunt Jane ever shouting, "There is our Lady Patroness, my good friend Mrs. Drummond Burrel! My very dear Mrs. Burrel, may I present to you my nieces? Miss Frederica Darcy—Miss Henrietta Darcy—and Miss Te—I mean, Miss _Theodosia_ Darcy, of Pemberley, Derbyshire."

It was difficult to hear what Mrs. Burrel shouted back, but they all agreed that it was 'charmed' or something of the sort.

The Countess de Lieven came by to twinkle at them, splendid in a gown of the deepest blue silk, cut low to show her ivory shoulders and moving with her slender form with the limpidity of water. She was so grand, and so beautiful, that they were quite agog; when she seemed so truly delighted to make their acquaintance that the girls were amazed. "So you are Fitzwilliam Darcy's girls!" she cried, and she squeezed their hands, and inquired after their Papa, and Mamma, and told them that they must dance, she _must_ see that they were having a good time!

"She is _nothing_ like the papers say," Hetty confided in Tess's ear. "She is marvelous kind, and sweet to the core, and did you see the gorgeous plume behind her ear? I must have one like it, and I would get it myself, if I thought that Papa would not have a fit and throw it on the fire."

The ballroom was less crowded; it was finely decorated with printed paper on the walls, tall, arched windows and simple, elegant draperies, with beautifully decorated panels between them. Beyond the ballroom they could see the gameroom, where the gentlemen who preferred cards to dancing were wont to gather.

The music was pleasant and every thing was a whirl of color. "It was Countess de Lieven who introduced the waltz to England," Freddie recalled, "And how glad I am that she did, for this is a capital one! I only wish that we could dance—but we know nobody; and it is not likely that anyone should ask us."

At that very moment a young man stepped up to Aunt Jane and begged to be introduced to her esteemed companions; Aunt Jane smiled.

"Of course, Mr. Walter Gilbert—here are my nieces, Miss Frederica Darcy, etc."

Mr. Gilbert claimed Freddie and away they waltzed. A second gentleman approached, and the introductions were repeated, and Hetty danced off, happily. She had taken a feather from her hat and tucked it behind her ear in an approximation of the Countess de Liezen's.

"And shall we find someone for you?" asked Aunt Jane to Tess.

Tess smiled. "It is quite all right," she said, "I am contented to sit by and just watch everything. It is all so new, and wonderful."

She made her way around the balcony, at times looking down to find her sisters in the crowd. Oh—Freddie must watch her steps, or she would trample all over Mr. Gilbert's poor feet! Hetty had disappeared somewhere, was lost in the crowd, and Tess laughed, imagining her standing agape as all the ladies in their dresses passed, filling her head with new designs and fashions. Later, she knew, Hetty would write them all down in her sketchbook, furiously, so that when she got home, she could remake her wardrobe accordingly. For her it would be like a dream come true.

Tess found her way to the refreshments room; she had been to nervous to eat dinner, but now she was here she was a little hungry. She was quite surprised at the trays laid out on the table—for all its glamour and style, there was nothing but some very thinly sliced bread with butter and dry cake, no icing, nothing like Cook's cake at Pemberley. She decided she would not eat, but accepted a glass of lemonade and sipped at it. Presently, Hetty appeared, and she was drawing a gentleman with her, by the hand.

"Look, Tess, whom I have found!" she cried, "It is Mr. Eustis—can you fancy? He happened to be in London at the same time as us, and now he is here! How funny—a minister at Almack's! I did not think they let _them_ in here."

"And why shouldn't they?" asked Mr. Eustis, archly. "I happen to be a very fashionable minister, as you know; Rosings Park is home to _the_ de Bourghs, and many of the ton come from the edges of Society to let me sermonize at them."

"But Mr. Eustis," Tess wondered, "Do you find it at all difficult, being here—what with the music and the waltzing? What would Mr. Collins say?"

"I do not care what he would say," said Mr. Eustis firmly. "I always dance when I am at Almack's—it is too good an atmosphere to pass up. The music is of the first rate and the ladies are the prettiest in the world! Speaking of dancing—have _you_ taken my advice?"

Tess admitted that she had not—she had even forgotten her tapping.

"Then we shall dance now!" Mr. Eustis cried, and he grabbed her hand and ran with her to the dance floor, before she could pull away.

The music was another waltz, and she was red-faced and flummoxed at first, but after a few moments she relaxed; Mr. Eustis danced exceedingly well. "What a pity," she mourned, "That you should have to hide your light under a barrel most of the time."

"I do not mind it," laughed Mr. Eustis. "I _like_ being a minister—and because I like it so much, it is not very hard to give it up. I only wonder if I should ever find a wife—for nobody wants to be a minister's wife—it is so dull. It pains me to think that I should find some pretty girl, who is fashionable and full of fun, and she will not have me, because she will have to give up those things."

"Any girl worth her salt would stick by you," Tess said, very certainly. "Or else she would not be having.

"D'you know—that may be very true. Oh! It is the minuet—I love the minuet, do not run away! I will not let you, I must dance or perish."

Tess threw back her head and laughed.

When their dance was over she was hungry enough to eat even the unappetizing cake, so she sat in an alcove while Mr. Eustis foraged for refreshments. "I could not find Hetty," he said, "So I will have to sit and eat this cake I brought her." Which he did, and while they sat together, Mr. Eustis told her news from Derbyshire.

"Sophy is very subdued," he said, "It is such a pity to see her in that way. I came across her by the lake at Pemberley and found her crying. It is such a shame, to see a bride-to-be with tears in her eyes. Your Mamma and Papa told me when I took my leave that I should send their love, especially to you, for they know how you hate to be separated from home."

"I do," Tess sighed. "It is very hard. I hate being away from Pemberley. All of my sisters make plans for the day when they will go away from home but I cannot; I cannot imagine it. I think I should die if I ever was away from it for too long."

In a casual little voice, she asked about Mr. Wimsey—so offhandedly that anybody would have thought she had just thought of him, out of nowhere. But Mr. Eustis heard the tremble in her words and looked at her carefully.

"He was quite well when I left him—do you know, this cake is so hard, I think I have just broken a tooth. It is most disappointing—the food gets worse year after year. The only thing that will take my mind off of it is to dance."

"_More_ dancing! Really, Reverend Eustis—you are too bad!"

"If you're going to court the devil you might as well do it properly." Mr. Eustis took Tess hand and led her back to the floor and they danced—and danced—and danced.


	12. A Brief Coldness

The next day Tess had a letter from Sophy

The next day Tess had a letter from Sophy.

_It is so very unfair that you and Freddie and Hetty get to be in town having grand fun while I am stuck at Pemberley_, she wrote, apparently feeling no need for a salutation of any kind. _Aunt Jane wrote to Mamma asking if she might take you to Almack's, so I suppose you will go. I should love to go. Perhaps Wimsey will take me when we are in town, but I shall be married then and I shall have no fun to speak of. It really is so unfair—you don't even like dancing! _

"Fair!" Tess thought. "It was _really_ unfair that I should be sent away from home in the first place, when _I_ have done nothing wrong."

_I suppose Hetty will come home with a lot of newfangled clothes that Papa will confiscate from her. I am supposed to be picking my bridal gown this week. All anyone ever wants to talk to me about is the wedding. Wedding this, and wedding that! Mamma: the trousseau. Wimsey: the date. I should be driven to insanity if it were not for Mr. Atherton, who stays on at Corinth Hall. He is not so unpleasant to me as he once was. At least _he_ talks to me of other things—things that _matter_. _

"Two weeks ago, Sophy thought Mr. Wimsey the only thing that mattered in the world," Tess murmured. "What _can_ she be about?"

_Well, it is getting very late _(Sophy wrote)_ and Wilson will be up soon to bring me my milk—I cannot sleep without it. I do not sleep, lately, at all. I do wish you would come home. It is lonely here without you. _

"Poor Sophy," said Tess to Hetty. "I do believe she misses us—even Freddie. I wonder if anything is amiss at home?"

"I couldn't possibly offer an opinion," said Hetty, coldly, and swept past Tess without another word.

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"She is upset because you stole the show from her last night," explained Freddie. "Hetty was hoping to be the belle of Almack's, but it was you who danced and had such a good time with Mr. Eustis, so it is you that everyone is speaking of."

Tess thought back to Hetty's preparations for the ball; she had changed her dress three times, she had spent an hour on her hair and she had been all aquiver. It had always been Hetty's dream to go to Almack's, to dance and have everyone take notice of her. Tess felt awful. She should have tried to make the occasion more special for her sister.

"Hetty," she said, knocking gently on her sister's door, "Mr. Eustis has just written to me—he wants to take us both to the British Museum, and Aunt Jane has said we might go. Even Uncle Bingley agreed there is no better chaperon than a minister. Will you come?"

"With you—and Mr. Eustis!" Hetty cried. "I shan't, thank you. I have other things to do."

"Won't you write to her especially tomorrow?" Tess asked Mr. Eustis, as they took their turn through the King's Library. "I think she felt rather left out, and would benefit from some particular attention. If you could compliment her on her hat—or her gown—it would go a long way toward cheering her up."

Mr. Eustis promised that he would. "I wish she had come today," he said, kicking at the gravel. "Hetty is the most charming girl in the world, and I had something to tell her; today at lunch I heard someone at my club say that the Countess herself remarked on the elegance of Miss Henrietta Darcy's hat. I had thought she would like to hear it."

"Oh, _that_ is just what I want you to tell her, tomorrow!" Tess implored. "It will improve her spirits to no end."

"You care very much about Hetty, don't you?"

"Yes," Tess said passionately. "I hate it when Freddie and Sophy fight, but it is worse to fight with Hetty, because we are twins, you know, and I love her with all my heart."

"I did not know that you were twins! How amusing—you don't look anything like one another."

"Papa always says that I am Dark and Hetty is Light, because of our colouring. I think that Hetty got the looks and I got—well, it would not be kind to say that I got the wits, because I am not so very smart, and Hetty is smart, too—when she wants to be."

"You are very pretty yourself," said Mr. Eustis, very sincerely. "Oh, how do you do, Mr. Forrest! I shall see you later at White's—_and _you should not run yourself down, Miss Tess. It will not do."

"Oh, I wasn't—running," Tess sighed. "I wasn't doing anything, really. And thank you for the compliment. You are too kind."

"Think nothing of it, and come and look at this book; it is the sole surviving copy of _Beowulf_ in the old English—most interesting, wouldn't you say?"

Tess, who had read the story in the modern English, with the flesh creeping off of her bones, did in fact, say.

She had been right about Hetty. The next day Mr. Eustis took her to Vauxhall Gardens on her own, which was much more a fashionable place than the British Museum; Hetty came back with roses in her cheeks and in a much more charitable mood.

"We walked the Spring Gardens, and it was so charming—and who do you think I saw? It was the Countess, Tess, with a group of friends, and she got down from her carriage and came to talk to me! Me! I was so surprised I didn't have anything to say; I am sure that she thought me dreadful boring. And _then_ she went away and later I saw her disappear down a 'dark walk' with—a _man_—and Harry told me later that it was the Austrian Chancellor!"

"Harry?" said Tess. "I hope you did not speak to Mr. Eustis so familiarly before any body; they might get quite the wrong idea."

"Really!" Hetty sniffed. "You miss the point entirely on some things."

"Hetty, your face is very red," cried Aunt Jane, coming in. "You should go and put a cool cloth on it right away; you have gotten too much sun and will have a head-ache tomorrow, I am sure."


	13. Home Again

"Who is the woman who keeps staring at us

"Who is the woman who keeps staring at us?" wondered Tess, to Mr. Eustis, as they and Hetty were seated at a table in a coffee shop in Drury Lane. They had been walking, admiring the Christmas decorations in the square, but Hetty had gotten very cold and Mr. Eustis had said that a bowl of chocolate would be quite the thing. Now they were indoors, and quite warm, and the chocolate was just as delicious as Mr. Eustis promised, and Tess was very happy; until she noticed a woman with a haughty look and sinister eyes watching them, from a grand table in the front of the room.

"Who?" Mr. Eustis craned his neck. "Oh! I see who you mean—and she is eyeing us, most devilishly. I wonder if her mother ever taught her that it was impolite to stare? It is Lady Atherton who is watching us—or I should say, _you_."

"Lady Atherton!" Tess cried. "I wonder if she is any relation to your friend, Mr. Andrew Atherton!"

"She is—she is his stepmother, and more besides—she is your Uncle Bingley's sister, though she has tried to keep that quiet since her marriage to the baron."

"Why?"

"I know why," Tess supplied. "It is because Mamma's family is so low, compared to her. It would not do for it to come out that she is related to a Nobody of Nobodybourn."

"I am offended!" cried Hetty. "Mamma has nothing to be ashamed of her in lineage, and _we_ do not, either. What an officious woman! I do not like the way she looks at me. I am going to go and get another bowl of chocolate; no, do not get up, Ha—Mr. Eustis. I would like to go myself, there is a woman in a green hat by the door that is simply cunning, and I must examine it, and ask her where she got it. I shall be back in a moment."

Mr. Eustis watched her go, and sighed. "Hetty told me yesterday that you will soon be going back to Pemberley." He sounded very rueful at the thought, and Tess did not like to think of their jolly friend being upset over the notion.

"Yes," she said, regretfully. "We received Papa's letter yesterday; he wrote that we should come home for the holiday. We have never been separated for Christmas before, and Sophy is not well."

"Oh! I do hope it is nothing serious."

"I think she is just sad; perhaps she misses us."

"That must be it." Mr. Eustis laughed. "If you were my sisters, I should miss you, too. I know that I _will_ miss you dreadfully when you go."

"Will you not be returning to Derbyshire soon?"

"Not until spring, I am afraid. The Christmas season is full of obligations for me, too. My little flock might not know what day it was were I not there to preach a sermon on the Nativity, from Luke."

Tess was sad to hear this. "Mr. Eustis, you must know that we will miss you most heartily!" she cried.

"Here I am," Hetty said, sitting down. "I showed my tongue to that horrid Lady Atherton."

"Oh, Hetty! You did not!"

"I did," said Hetty, "Just look at her face." They looked, and Lady Atherton's long eyes were gleaming with a treacherous light.

"Hetty!" cried Tess, knowing her sister had done just as she said.

Hetty only shrugged and took a sip of her drink, and made a face. "How horrid; they have given me coffee by mistake! I do not care for coffee—you drink it, Tess." She passed the cup to her sister and the heady scent wafted up, and made Tess think, quite unexpectedly, of Mr. Wimsey.

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Mr. Wimsey was not anywhere at Pemberley when the girls returned, but Tess did not miss him in her delight to be home, among her family again.

"How lovely Pemberley is," sighed Tess, "It is worth going away from home—for a little while—if only for the joy of coming back to the place that my heart loves best."

"I take it you did not enjoy your time in town, then," Mr. Darcy commented fondly—his happiness at being reunited with his girls was no less at theirs at seeing him again. "You are a little country mouse, Tessie, and make no mistake."

"I did not _not_ enjoy town," Tess said, putting her elbows on the table and resting her chin in her hands. "It was lovely to see Aunt Jane—and Uncle Bingley, and Raleigh, and Beth—and to go to the British Museum and even to Almack's."

"Do not speak of that in front of Sophy, or it will set her off again," Mr. Darcy cautioned.

Tess sighed again and leaned further into her hands. She had been so surprised by Sophie's appearance upon their return from London; she looked as though she had not slept once in the time her sisters had been away. There were black circles under her eyes, and her face was thin and wan and piteous. She would not suffer anyone to talk about Mr. Wimsey before her. "Oh, please, I am _sick_ of Mr. Wimsey!"

"That is not a very nice thing to say about your intended, Sophy," said Mrs. Darcy reproachfully.

Sophy looked for a moment like she would protest but her shoulders slumped, instead. "I did not mean it at all. I care a great deal for Wimsey and he is a most accommodating man. It is only that you would think that I had no other interests at all. Nobody talks to me of anything but Wimsey, Wimsey, Wimsey."

"Well you are to be Mrs. Wimsey," said Freddie, who, after her stint at Bingley house, was able to say these words without feeling so bereft as she once had. "It is only natural to think that people should want to speak of it to you."

"Do shut up," Sophy sighed. "Oh, _please_, Freddie, my head aches so."

Freddie shut up and fixed her eyes instead of Hetty. "What on earth are you wearing!" she cried.

They all turned to look and indeed Hetty looked very odd—odd for Hetty, not for the general populus at large—in a plan gray dress and no ornaments of any kind on her hair. Her slippers were dark, flat black velvet and her arms and throat were similarly unadorned. Darcy looked at her over the edge of his paper.

"Henrietta!" he said sternly. "Do come here."

Hetty came dutifully and stood in front of him.

"You look like a nun," Darcy told her. "What do you mean by this? If you are dressing so somberly it means you must have brought a heap of scandalous things home from town; you are trying to butter me up. Go to your trunk immediately and have Porters bring it down."

"There is no need, Papa," said Hetty firmly. "I did not bring anything home from London—save for that dear green hat—although I suppose I will have to make it over now, in something drab: blue or brown or black."

"Why would you _do_ such a thing?" Darcy wondered.

"I am becoming a _person of character_," Hetty said proudly. "I am tired of being a flibbertigibbet. I want to cultivate a more serious appearance. I am not Miss Frivolity; I am tired of people thinking that I am."

"Is that my _Treatise on the Abolition of Slavery in the Americas_ tucked under your arm?" Freddie wondered. "Oh, Hetty—I thought _you_ were reading _Ivanhoe_!"

"I was," said Hetty gravely. "Until I realized that it was trash, and was not fit to be put in my mind."

"I enjoyed _Ivanhoe_," said Mrs. Darcy, to nobody really.

"Of all my girls, I would not have fathomed Hetty—our Hetty!—a bluestocking!" cried Darcy, and shuffled his papers, so that they would all know how he did not like the idea, though he might have said he wished for such a thing many times over—or at least, he'd used to say.

Hetty could not think of anything to say to this that would match her new persona so she settled for sweeping elegantly from the room, her nose high in the air.

"Soon she will be as sour and cheerless as you, Sophy," said Freddie.

"Oh!" Sophy cried. "You are _too_ mean, Freddie." She got up from the table and ran from the room. A minute later, Freddie strode off with a loud harrumph. Tess, ever the peacemaker, ran after them, pleading. "Girls—_please _don't quarrel!" A door slammed from upstairs and from the parlour came the sound of Sophy convulsing into tears.

"It is good to have them back," said Mr. Darcy, to Mrs. Darcy—with only a _hint_ of sarcasm.


	14. A Night at Corinth Hall

Mr

Mr. Wimsey, Tess thought, when she at last laid her eyes on him, did not look any better than Sophy; indeed, if it was possible, he looked worse. In only three very short weeks he had gone from an affable nature and shining good looks to a very disagreeable one, and his looks were taxed by it. He was quiet—he would not dance—and one evening, just this side of the new year, he even snapped at Mr. Atherton.

"_Must_ you plonk away at that contraption?" he said, most peevishly, gesturing to the harpsichord, upon which Mr. Atherton had been playing a merry country tune. "Your rattle gives me a headache; I wish you would find something else to do, Andrew."

"_I_ want to sing," Sophy said, lifting up her chin. "There is nothing so nice as that for perking the spirits. I adore singing; keep playing, Mr. Atherton."

"You may adore it—but I abhor it. Do not play another note, Atherton, or I should smash the thing to smithereens where it stands."

"Play _on_, Mr. Atherton. I _will_ sing!"

Mr. Atherton kept his hands raised halfway to the keys; he did not know what to do. "Let us go and sing at the moon," he said, by way of compromise, "It will be most pagan of us." Sophy looked as though she would fight it, for a moment, but she allowed Mr. Atherton to steer her toward the coat-room, and from there into the garden. Tess watched anxiously; it was bitter cold, and Sophy really did not look very well. She was glad that Mamma and Papa had stayed at Pemberley tonight—she did not want them to see the look of pique on Sophy's face as she went.

It was very quiet in the parlour without Mr. Atherton's music. Freddie was playing cards with Mr. Ellersby and Hetty was learning to knit from his wife. "Knit two," she said, watching the needles flying.

"Aha!" Freddie cried. "I have got you, Mr. Ellersby!"

"_Purl_ two, my dear," said Mrs. Ellersby to Hetty. "Look at my hands; you will soon catch it."

"I shall never learn it, I am destined to be useless," said Hetty in despair.

Mr. Wimsey stared morosely into the fire. He seemed riveted by every snap and hiss of the logs. Tess watched his brooding face. Oh, how she hated to see him so dull and humorless! He had a face made for smiles; arranged in its current grim lines he looked unfamiliar and almost forbidding. Oh, where was their charming friend of only a few weeks ago? Where had he gone away to?

"Dear Mr. Wimsey," said Tess on impulse, "You seem most unhappy. Is there anything that would perk your spirits?"

Mr. Wimsey turned toward her with such a hot light in his eyes that Tess had the sneaking suspicion that he had been thinking about her while he watched the fire. Oh—what if he _was_? But then she quashed it: he could not have been.

"Happy?" he said. "I do not know why you would ask me such a thing. Don't I have every reason for happiness in the world? I have a wonderful home, crammed to bursting with friends. I shall be married in four months' time to a capital pretty girl—perhaps the prettiest in the country—and my fledgling business is doing better than I could have hoped in my wildest dreams."

"And yet you are not happy," said Tess.

"Why would you think it?"

"You are nothing like your old self."

"You have only had the pleasure of my acquaintance for a few months," Mr. Wimsey pointed out. "Perhaps this is my real self, and the happy Wimsey that you knew was the imposter. It could be that you do not know me very well at all."

"I do not think that is the case." Tess surprised herself but putting her hand over his larger one. For a moment he pressed back, looking deep into her eyes; but then he pulled away.

"Tell me, Miss Theodosia—did you enjoy your stay in town?"

Tess was surprised by the very abrupt turn in the conversation. "I did enjoy it," she said. "But I was glad to come home."

"Oh! _Were_ you?—it is not what I heard."

"What could you have heard otherwise?"

Mr. Wimsey shrugged and looked back at the fire. "You have been most cordial in your congratulations to me upon my impending change of state. I only hope you will allow me to be the very first to congratulate you on yours—when the time comes."

"What _are_ you talking about?" Tess cried.

"Ah—she is all womanly shyness. Very good, Tess—very good; your modesty is beyond reproach."

"Modesty has nothing to do with it. I am only confused—I do not know what you could be speaking of."

"Do you not?" Wimsey looked her over. "You are very sincere—you do not play the coquette. Well, it could be that you do not know—yet."

"Know _what_? For heaven's sake, I am tired of this talking around things!"

Mr. Wimsey declined to answer. Instead he looked out of the window where Sophy and Mr. Atherton could be seen in the garden, looking up at the sky.

"They must be very cold," he surmised. "I shall have to go and apologize for my beastliness, or else they will have frost-bite and I should have to worry it was my fault. Do excuse me."

And he stood up and strode out of doors, without even donning his own coat, which made Tess worry for him.

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"Is there any story more romantic than Andromeda and Perseus?" wondered Sophy as they rode home. "Mr. Atherton told me about it tonight, as we watched the stars." She snuggled up to Freddy, digging her hands deeper into her fur muff.

"Sophy," said Tess, in a low voice, "Mr. Wimsey was most depressed tonight. Why did you not try to make up to him, to soothe him down?"

Sophy shrugged, a careless gesture. "Look at Hetty, nodding to sleep! I would, too, if I were half so boring as she is, lately. Wimsey is always dismal about something. I am sure his moods are not my fault."

"How can you say it?" Tess wondered. "He is your intended; he will share your life with you, Sophy. I should think his moods were more important to you than any other thing."

Sophy did not deign to answer, but continued with her story. "Andromeda was chained, you know, to a rock at the sea's edge—she would have died—but the hero Perseus came and saved her in the nick of time. I think I shall begin a water-color of it tomorrorw, and make a gift of it to Mr. Atherton; he raised my spirits considerably tonight."

"No doubt you will put your face in place of Andromeda's," Freddy cautioned. "It will not do to think too highly of yourself, Sophy. Andromeda thought herself the most beautiful woman in the world, and she was tied up for her pains. If she had had a little more modesty, she would not have been."

"And she would never have found her true love," Sophy pointed out. "So I suppose it was worth it, in the end."

Tess looked out of the carriage flap and saw Corinth Hall growing smaller in the distance. A light burned in one of the upstairs windows; she felt sure that it was poor Mr. Wimsey, alone and awake with his thoughts, whatever they might be. She lifted her hand to the flap and pressed it there, wishing that it were his face. She thought of the terrible anguished look in his eyes and it made her shiver, though cuddled up to Hetty, she should have been quite warm.


	15. The Honored Guest

At the start of February, it was Sophy's turn to go to town, but she did not seem as excited by the prospect as she should

At the start of February, it was Sophy's turn to go to town, but she did not seem as excited by the prospect as she should.

"It is only to buy wedding clothes," she sighed. "And none of you will be there."

"But it will be so nice to see Aunt Kitty," cajoled Tess. Aunt Kitty was, of course, Mrs. James Wyeth, and would be chaperoning Sophy on the journey and staying with her at Bingley House. Tess was rather fond of her rosy, chattering aunt, who had two boys of her own, and, as she put it to Eliza Darcy, had longed for a daughter, so that she could participate in just this kind of thing.

"It is going to be so fun!" she cried, "And I am exceeding glad you have charged me with the task of helping Sophy choose her wedding things. Jane is so modest, you know—almost to the point of plainness, one would think she was a Quaker, for all she knows of fashion. She is not as bad as Mary, though—nobody could be as bad as Mary. And her Lady Brereton, you would think she knew better! But I suppose Sir Brereton likes a dowdy wife, for he seems to like Mary fine. Now, now, Brother Darcy, do not look at me so blackly. I might have been a very silly girl when you first knew me but my dear Mr. Wyeth has changed me for the better; I will not let Sophy pick things that are tacky or outrageous. I am not Lydia, you know. Oh, Sophy, aren't we to make a merry party? I have brought a deck of cards and so we will have something to do on the carriage-ride, and I can tell you all about my latest trip to Bath when we tire of them. I am so looking forward to it all!"

Sophy's dour face showed that her feelings did not match her aunt's.

There was to be another parting—"Indeed," Hetty said, "It seems as though every one is leaving us!"—Mr. Atherton would be returning to London to tend to some business affairs.

"We are going to have quite a dull time," sighed Freddie. "There will be nothing to do."

Within the space of a few days they had a letter from Sophy.

_London is so dull, _she wrote. _I did not think it would be more dull than Pemberley but it is. Aunt Jane could not get us vouchers for Almack's, but even if she could, we would not have time to go. I am in fittings for my trousseau every day from luncheon to tea-time and after that I am so tired I go straight up to bed. Last night Mr. Atherton called and I was already asleep. How I hated to miss him! He, at least, would have provided some entertainment, for he is always so jovial. _

_My wedding dress is to be a pale ivory satin with an overlaid skirt of rose net. Aunt Kitty chose it; I could not find one thing in the whole shop that I cared anything about. Everyone tells me I look marvelous in it, but the only thing I could think when I saw it was that I looked so wan and not like myself at all. There was a lovely lavender lace dress that I was mad for, but Aunt Jane would not let me try it. Lavender is not fitting for matrons—how I hate that word! Matron! It seems that one can have no fun when one is married, I wonder why people decide to do it. _

_A footman delivered my bridal jewelry today, from Wimsey's bank: ropes and ropes of pearls. I do not care for them. My heart fell to see them. I am not fond of pearls, I like a little sparkle as you well know. I think it monstrous unfair that I should be stuck with pearls when other girls have diamonds—rubies—emeralds. Oh, I should die for a few emeralds! There was one opal pin but it was no better than the pearls, all milky and innocuous. I thought of you when I saw them, Tess, for they would suit you far better than they would suit me. _

_Here is a knock on the door—I am sure it is one of Aunt Kitty's insufferable friends. Oh—but wait—it is not, it is Mr. Atherton come to call again; I recognize his voice. How charming! My spirits have perked up immeasurably. I am supposed to write Wimsey but I cannot do it now, I must go—if you see him you may tell him I am well and tell him I said 'thank you' for the horrid pearls, they are very pleasant and just the thing, etc. _

"Little spoiled ungrateful wretch!" breathed Tess to herself, and she would have penned a scathing reply if there had not been a knock at the door of Pemberley, and after a minute, Mrs. Darcy calling in a queer voice for Tess to come down, right away.

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"Who can it be?" wondered Tess to herself, as she tripped down the stairs. She had not been expecting anybody, it was so early—she was still yawning, and had not yet had her breakfast. She had changed into her dress and slippers but she had not put her hair up and it hung in curls down her back. She stopped by the kitchen to ask Porters to make up a bowl of porridge.

"I'm sure it won't take long, whatever this is," she said. "And I'm so hungry!"

"Tess!" Mrs. Darcy called again, "Do come—now, darling!"

Tess went into the parlour and immediately stopped dead in her tracks. Seated on the loveseat was a very old lady dressed from head to foot in black. Her skin was like crepe and her hair was iron gray. She held a pair of gold spectacles up to her eyes, which were the only young things about her. They were snapping and black, and they looked Tess up and down, and the mouth turned further downward at the corners.

"Fitzwilliam Darcy's girl," she sniffed. "I had expected rather something more."

She turned to Hetty, who had just come in, and surveyed her, too. "You look a rather plump child," she said, and then to Mrs. Darcy, "I suppose she takes after you."

Hetty was too awed by the majestic presence to say anything besides a weak, "Mamma is not plump."

Now the old woman turned her gaze on Elizabeth Darcy. "Not yet," she said, "No—not yet—but I do remember your mother, _dear_ Mrs. Bennet. She was quite rotund, wasn't she?"

A spark of anger came into Lizzy Darcy's eyes, but before she could say anything, the woman on the loveseat raised a hand.

"Do not speak, I pray," she said. "You are bound to say something rude and uncouth and I should have to chastise you for it, and I would hate to do it in front of your own daughters." Her tone suggested that she would not hate it at all. "Besides, Miss Bennet, I have not come to talk to you. It is your daughter Theodosia—who you so _charmingly_ call 'Tess'—to whom I wish to speak. She may stay. The rest of you may leave."

"If you don't mind too much," said Lizzy, in tones of extreme politesse, "I rather feel that we will stay. And it is 'Mrs. Darcy,' now, your ladyship, and has been for twenty-three years!"

"A mere slip of the tongue," said her ladyship, waving a white, beringed hand. "Of course you are Mrs. Darcy—though I will say that you belie your more humble origins to correct me so viciously."

Elizabeth _Darcy_ held her tongue and sat down. Hetty and Tess followed suit.

"It is very—cold—today," said Tess, to fill the silence that followed.

Her ladyship waved her hand again. "Let us dispense with the niceties," she commanded. "I have not come to talk with you of the weather. I want to say my piece and then I will go. It _pains_ me to be here, and to see dear Pemberley in such a state! When my sister Anne was mistress here, how wonderful it was! But I fear it takes a great deal of breeding to manage such a grand estate—it is not your fault, Mrs. Darcy, that you cannot maintain it in its proper grandeur."

"_Thank you_ for understanding," said Lizzy, in deadly tones.

The old woman fixed her sharp eyes on Hetty again and then moved her gaze to Tess. "You _are_ Theodosia Darcy?" she asked.

"Yes," said Tess, uncertainly, her old shyness creeping back over her.

"Well, either you are or aren't," said the old woman. "Which might it be."

"I _am_ Theodosia Darcy," Tess quavered.

"_I_ am Lady Catherine de Bourgh," said Lady Catherine de Bourgh, "And I am come to tell you that I know exactly of your plans—and you shall not see them bourne out while there is breath left in my body!"


	16. An Interview with Her Ladyship

A stunned silence followed

A stunned silence followed. None of the Darcys felt they could safely speak, and Lady Catherine de Bourgh did not seem inclined to. Nor did she seem to mind the silence, she looked all around her, at the furnishings, the drapes, the walls. Her eyes alighted on a particularly garish portrait of Grandpapa and Grandmama Bennet, and her ladyship sniffed audibly to see it. She picked up a scarf from the sofa and examined it—it was Hetty's finest attempt at wool-working to date, but Lady Catherine seemed to see every dropped stitch at a glance. She tossed it aside and sniffed again.

Finally, Tess found her tongue. "My—my plans?" she asked. "Indeed, and most respectfully, your ladyship, but I do not know you, I have never laid eyes on you before. How, then, can you purport to know any of my plans."

"I have a great many friends in town," said Lady Catherine. "I understand that you have lately been to town yourself."

"Yes—to visit our Aunt Bingley."

"Bingley!" Lady Catherine's face was a picture of disapproval. "If ever there was a man who lowered himself more than my nephew, it is Charles Bingley. I will not deny that your aunt is a sweet woman, but she has nothing besides her manner to recommend her. There are a great many other very sweet woman who would have brought more to the table. Tell me, girl—did you enjoy your time at Almack's? Oh, yes, I heard that you went—though I wrote the patronesses, of course, to express my displeasure at their—lapse—in standards, in letting you and your sisters in. It shows a marked change in decorum that I do not support. I have told my granddaughter Phoebe that she may not go back until I am quite sure this was a momentary lapse and not the start of some new egalitarian trend. You _did_ dance at the ball?"

"Yes, I danced."

"And who was your partner."

"It was Mr. Eustis—Mr. Henry Eustis."

"Ah!" Lady Catherine cried, her eyes alight. "You do not deny it, then!"

"No—there is nothing to deny. And even if I wished to I could not—more than a hundred people saw us. It would be stupid to deny it, and I would not."

"You know then," said Lady Catherine freezingly. "That several dozen people saw you together at the British Museum—and another thirty or forty walking very closely along Drury lane. And _laughing_ together."

"I make a point to laugh with my friends," Tess said.

"I do not doubt you do—especially when your 'friend' is a man of good family and character, and of a handsome disposition."

"This is too much!" cried Elizabeth Darcy. "You are calling Tess a flirt, and I will not have it. If you do it again, Lady Catherine, I will have to ask you to leave."

Lady Catherine glared at her, and then back at Tess. "I suppose you do not know that Mr. Eustis has the curacy of Rosings Park in Kent," she said, "And that _I_ am the mistress of said Rosings Park?"

"I did know that he was there—and I had heard that you lived at Rosings, yes."

"Rosings _Park_," corrected Lady Catherine. "Well, I suppose you did not know that my granddaughter, Phoebe de Bonneville—daughter of Lord and Lady de Bonneville—has been engaged to Mr. Henry Eustis these past twelve months and more!"

"He is not!" cried Hetty. "Oh, he isn't!"

"This does not concern you, so sit down," ordered Lady Catherine and Hetty, still fuming, sat. It was that way when Lady Catherine ordered things. You _had_ to obey or else wilt beneath that dragon-stare.

"I want to ask a question," said Elizabeth Darcy. "Lady Catherine—has this engagement been announced? I only ask because in all the time I have known him I have never heard Mr. Eustis speak of Miss Phoebe de Bonneville—or any Miss de Bonneville at all."

Lady Catherine turned a dull puce under her lace cap. "I use the word engagement in its more casual form," she admitted. "It is more that there has been an understanding between my Phoebe and Mr. Eustis. They understand that I desire them to marry."

"A curate?" asked Lizzy, archly.

"He is from a very old and respected family," Lady Catherine snapped. "But I would not expect you to know that."

"What has this to do with me?" Tess interrupted.

"Do not interrupt your betters," Lady Catherine admonished. "You deny, then, that you have been attempting to—ensnare Mr. Eustis into a match—a match that will benefit you far more than it would benefit him?"

"If you mean to ask whether I care for Mr. Eustis romantically, the answer is that I do not, though I hardly see that it is any of your business."

"Impertinence—and deceit! Two very unbecoming qualities in a young woman. I had expected Fitzwilliam's daughters to at least have a semblance of modesty, but I see now that what is bred in the bone is borne out in the flesh."

"That is the last time you will insult us!" Tess cried, all in a temper. "I shall not let you do it again! My mother's family might have been 'low' in your estimation but even my Grandmama Bennet would not have insulted you the way that you insult my mother. I am _not_ engaged to Mr. Eustis, because I do not love him, but now I wish I did, and I wish I was, for it would put a bee in your bonnet and that would be no less than you deserve!"

There was a shocked silence—even Mrs. Darcy seemed shocked—that Tess, sweet Tess, should stand up for herself in such a way. She stared aghast at her tall, proud daughter—who looked enough like her father that even Lady Catherine must notice it. Tess locked eyes with Lady Catherine, and would not look away; she stared her down, and was determined that the other woman should drop her gaze, first.

Hetty stood up and cried, "Tess speaks the truth, Lady Catherine; she is not to marry Mr. Eustis!"

"And why should I believe you?" wondered Lady Catherine coldly.

"Because," Hetty cried, "Mr. Eustis is going to marry _me_!"

"Hetty!" cried her mother.

"Oh, Hetty!" cried Tess.

Hetty looked from one to the other and back at Lady Catherine, and then slumped to the floor in a dead faint.


	17. A Shocking Confession

"It is true," Hetty sobbed, when she came round

"It is true," Hetty sobbed, when she came round. "My dear Harry and I have been engaged since before Christmas—it happened in town—we were walking in Vauxhall Gardens and he looked at me and said, 'Hetty—darling.' And I _knew_. He said, 'You will—won't you?' and I said yes, of course I said it—oh my dear Harry! I loved him since I first saw him; I shall love him forever and ever! And I _shall_ be his wife, so there!"

Tess remembered Hetty's color the day she came back from the gardens. It all made sense now. Hetty—engaged! And to Mr. Eustis! She leaned forward and threw her arms around her twin.

"Oh, I am so glad," she breathed. "Oh, Hetty my dear—I am _so_ glad!"

Hetty sobbed into her shoulder.

"I am glad, too," said Mrs. Darcy, still bewildered by it all. "Mr. Eustis is the best sort of man—but Henrietta, you are so young. Only sixteen—I believe you are too young."

"Did it ever cross Eustis's mind that he might ask me what I thought of things?" said Mr. Darcy, a little peevishly. Peevish at finding his aunt installed in his parlour, and at finding one of his youngest daughters engaged! Even to a man like Harry Eustis!

"Oh, Papa," cried Hetty through her tears. "You won't forbid us—will you? Oh, Papa, you will not, you are too good."

"I will not," Darcy admitted. "Still, it would have been nice to be asked. I had a speech made up for when you went, Hetty—a very witty speech about how many hats your intended would buy for you, per annum. I was going to have it put in the contract. Though I suppose now that you are to be a minister's wife, you will not need very many at all."

"I would not have all the hats in the world if it meant I could not have Harry!" Hetty wept, joyously.

Lady Catherine, who had been largely ignored through all of this, rapped her cane on the floor to remind them she was still there. "Fitzwilliam," she said crisply, "I cannot believe you will allow this—not when _my_ Phoebe…"

"Harry does not care a thing for Phoebe!" Hetty turned, and hissed like a cat. "He told me she was the silliest girl he ever knew—silly, and vain and—and _stupid_! He said he would sooner marry French Sally than Phoebe de Bonneville, and I would not blame him! She sounds a right little minx!"

"Hetty!" cried her mother.

"You will be the ruin of Eustis," said Lady Catherine with a weird fire in her eyes. "You have _already_ been the ruin of him. The moment I get home he will be let go—he will no longer be the curate of Rosings Park. I would sooner have a Mohammedan for the vicar than Eustis and his half-breeded wife. You would be a perfect disgrace—are—will be—and mark my words!"

While Lady Catherine spoke, a dark cloud came over Fitzwilliam Darcy's face. Aunt or no aunt—he would not stand for it. "That will do quite nicely," he growled, and his daughters, who recognized the tone, were quite frightened. "Porters—come and see Lady Catherine to her barouche."

"I will not let you run me off…"

"I am not running you off. I heard you tell Lizzy that you could not stay long; I am only reminding you of your prior obligations that prevent you from staying for any longer. And in the future, Aunt Catherine, I would prefer if you would give advance notice of your visits to Pemberley. For someone who harps so much upon 'breeding' and 'manners' you seem to be very remiss in that department."

Lady Catherine went, but she would have the last word. At the door she turned back.

"I am reminded of the Holy Writ," she said, in a saintly manner. "Specifically of a verse that goes, '_They_ are brought down and fallen, but we have risen, and stand upright.'"

"_I_ am reminded of a verse," said her nephew. "'Judge not,' dear Aunt—'lest ye be judged.'"

xxxxxxxxxx

"I have found a solution," said Darcy, striding from his study to the dinner table. "It is quite perfect—and I am very proud of myself for thinking of it. The solution to our Rosings problem is two-fold. First, I am reminded that my friend Mr. Tilney is in need of a curate—his last vicar died a year ago and he has not been able to fill the spot. There is a shortage of clergy, you know—and Northanger Abbey is a most out-of-the-way, creepy sort of place. Nobody wants to go there. I shall write to Tilney and tell him all about Mr. Eustis's plight—he is a kind man, and I am sure he will acquiesce. That is solution number one."

"I do not like the sound of 'creepy,'" said Hetty distastefully. "Nor out-of-the-way."

"Nor do I," said her mother. "What is the other option we have?"

Darcy looked pleased, and beamed at them. "It has taken a bit of poking around at odd bits of paper," he said. "Girls, you will not know this, but Lizzy, you will—do you remember, about ten years ago, when Lady Catherine had—shall we say—a bit of financial distress? I do believe that is the polite way of putting it. Plainly," he said to his daughters, "She was deep in debt. It was Anne's husband, Walter, and his gambling debts—and Lady Catherine has always lived far beyond her means, and my Uncle, Sir Louis was not much better. His creditors—and hers, I daresay—came knocking, and she had but two options. First, she could retrench—move away from Rosings Park, and give it up; and second, she could find some kind person, or relation, to 'bail her out.'"

"Oh, Fitzwilliam!" Elizabeth cried, "You promised you would not give her the money, she did not deserve it, and does not even now. She is abhorrent, and utterly detestable. Throwing her out on the street would be _too_ kind."

"Nor did I _give_ her any money, Lizzy," said her husband. "I took a mortgage on Rosings—and my Lady Aunt has made some efforts of paying them back—but when it comes down to it, _I_ own more of Rosings Park than any de Bourgh alive. Hetty, if your Mr. Eustis wants to stay where he is—and why he would I do not know—well, you may. I need only write to her with a copy of her note—and I feel sure she will relent."

"Oh, Papa!" cried Hetty, jumping into his arms. "You are the best Papa, in the world, indeed you are!"

"If I must lose you, I would at least like to have you closer by," he told her, resting his cheek against her shining head.

Tess felt choked and overcome with happiness. It made her heart beat almost painfully in her chest, to see Hetty so happy. At once she could see her sister, the beautiful bride—a merry wife—and a doting mother, to a brood of little moppets with Hetty's curls and Mr. Eustis's laughing eyes.

"May she always be as happy as she is now—and more," Tess prayed, fervently.

"Now," Darcy said sternly, drying Hetty's tears, "You are engaged, and you have your future nicely secured. You may not be married until next April, when you are seventeen—I will not have anyone talking about how I foisted you off to the first man, when you were only a child. And," he added, "I cannot bear to let you go just yet."

"_And_," his wife laughed, "Sophy would rake her nails over your face if you were married before her. We must hope Freddie finds someone between now and April; for all her modernisms she is a great believer in birth order, and she will not like it, either."

As soon as Lizzy had mentioned Freddie, she appeared; she had been out walking but had apparently ran home. Her face was red and her hair was disheveled, and she was breathing hard.

"Oh," she gasped. "I was walking—in the lane—and a note came—and I grabbed it. It is from London. Oh, Mamma, oh, Papa! Whatever will we do?"

"Jane," said Lizzy, falling pale and sitting back in her seat. "Something has happened to Jane, or Bingley."

"It is Raleigh!" Tess whispered, feeling faint. "It _is_ the typhoid!"

"It is not Raleigh—and nobody has died," Freddie wailed. "It is much, much worse."

"Freddie!" said her father. "Give that note to me, since you seem to be incapable of telling us its news yourself."

"I will tell you," Freddie cried. "And you will quake to hear it. Mamma—Papa—girls—_Sophy has eloped with Mr. Andrew Atherton_!"


	18. Poor Mr Wimsey!

"Lizzy

"Lizzy!" cried Mr. Darcy, in the silence that followed. "This is all your fault!"

"Indeed, why is it?" said his wife, angrily enough, herself. Her cheeks flushed pink and her 'fine eyes' glittered dangerously. "Do you say so, sir, because my sister Lydia ran away with Mr. Wickham, long ago? Because if you do, I remind you that _your _sister Georgiana..."

"_My_ sister Georgiana was stopped in time," Darcy retorted. "Because I had kept my eye on her—_I_ discerned it—"

"Then you might have discerned this," said Mrs. Darcy, cuttingly. "If you are so _discerning._"

"I should have—except that Georgiana had no mother. Sophy _has_ one, and it is you. It falls to you to keep mind of them, to prevent them from—"

The three remaining Darcy daughters looked from parent to parent. Tess could not remember seeing her parents argue with one another, ever before.

"For heaven's sake," said Eliza, throwing up her hands. "Let us not quarrel, Fitzwilliam. We do not even know the whole of it. Give me that letter, Freddie, and let me read it."

The letter was duly handed over and Eliza sat down at the table, smoothing the page.

_Dear Mamma and Papa and Aunt Jane and girls and everyone_ (it read),

_By the time you read this I shall not be here, for I am going off to marry my dear darling Andrew. The next time you see me, it is true: I shall be Sophy Atherton. O, do not be mad, for it is a name very dear to my heart!_

_Can it have escaped your knowledge that I love him? If it has, I do wonder at the lot of you. I do not feel I hid my feelings very well, but that is how I am; I cannot put my emotions under a basket, and store them there. I am not like you, Tess, all closed up and cordoned off! _

_Do not be mad at my Aunt Jane, for she knows nothing. And do not be mad at me, for I am very happy. _

_And last you must not be mad at my dear Andrew, for he means the world to me, and I know you shall love him nearly as well as I do when he is my Husband. _

_Sophy_

"No, I do not blame Jane," said Mr. Darcy to himself. "And I do not blame you, Lizzy. I spoke too hastily before. I do not blame you at all."

"I am glad," said his wife.

"I blame the little minx herself," Darcy went on. "I wish that she were here before me, now; I should take a switch to her, and give her a beating she would not soon forget."

"If she were here, she would not need the beating," remarked his wife. "It would quite defeat the purpose."

There was a postmark, and Mrs. Darcy read it out, now: _Do tell Mr. Wimsey that I am dreadful sorry_.

"Oh, Wimsey," Darcy groaned, taking his head in his hands. "I shall have to go and tell him what has happened. I do not relish the idea. Lizzy, won't you go? Shall we draw straw for it?"

"Poor Mr. Wimsey," mourned Hetty. "His heart is sure to break."

Tess surprised herself by speaking; she had not meant to, but here were the words, tumbling out before she could stop them.

"I do not think it will!" she said, rather hotly, and all her family turned to regard her strangely at this out-burst. All the eyes were upon her.

"Why would you think that?" said Freddie, rather indignantly. "Any man in his position should be unhappy at this news. Do you accuse Mr. Wimsey of not having the finer feelings that a gentleman should?"

"I do not!" Tess cried, a spot of color appearing on each cheek. "I only mean that he should be _glad_ to be rid of Sophy—terrible, ungrateful little creature."

And then Tess surprised herself further by beginning to sob.

She did not know why it was that she was crying; indeed, her heart feel light and full, not heavy and grief-laden. Why should it feel so? Why should the news affect her thus? She said, "Horrid Sophy," through her tears again. But wherefore? Should she not be glad that her beloved sister had found happiness—and that her dear friend Wimsey had been prevented from a marriage that was sure to be a miserable one? Yes—yes—she should feel these things, she should not cry, and yet she did.

Hetty pinched her and whispered in her ear, "Why are _you_ upset? I should be crying, to have Sophy steal my lime-light this way! Oh, it is too mean of her!"

"Hush," said Mrs. Darcy, gently, to her girls. "We have all had a trying day. Freddie—Hetty—go into the parlour. Tess, come upstairs with me, there's a good girl."

xxxxxxxxxx

Mr. Darcy returned from Corinth Hall to report that Mr. Wimsey had taken the news far better than they had expected; he only went a little grim about the mouth when he is told, but he did not curse, not even under his breath. "The man is made of a fine mettle," he told his wife, admiringly.

"Would you have cursed me, under the circumstances?" she wondered, looking up at him.

"I would have damned you to the devil," said Darcy certainly. "When Wimsey was going to marry our Sophy I found that I did not want him to; I was unsure about him. But now that he is not, I wish he was. He is a stern, upright sort of man, and I admire him."

Tess did not feel well enough to come down for supper; indeed, nobody wanted very much, so all of Cook's ministrations were for naught. But after dinner, she had dried her eyes enough to come down to the parlour, for her father had said that he wished to talk to them all.

"I have decided to go to London," he said, pacing before the fire. "It is probably too late to prevent anything from happening—I am sure Bingley would have succeeded there if there was any success to be had. And it is not fashionable any more to go to Gretna—these vagabonds will be impossible to trace. They could be anywhere. But it would ease my mind if I should feel like I was doing _something_."

It was at this juncture that Wilson announced Mr. Wimsey's arrival, and showed that gentleman into the room, so that the plan had to be repeated again.

"I am not surprised," said Wimsey, standing up from the sofa, "And I have just come to tell you that I am going to London straightaway myself."

Tess turned her head to look at him; she had not expected this.

Why should Wimsey want to go? She had thought, in her secret heart, that he _would_ be glad to be rid of his attachment to Sophy; she had surmised for some time that they would not suit each other, and she had thought that Wimsey knew it, too. But now, looking at his avid face, she felt the doubts creep in. Oh, of _course_ he loved Sophy! She was so beautiful, so vivacious! Who could not love her? Of course he wanted her back, if he could get her.

But that is not what Mr. Wimsey said.

"I feel I should go," he explained, "Though I doubt there is any thing I could do to change things. But I have never been one to sit still in a crisis; I should rattle about my house at loose ends if left to my own devices. I do not think it likely, but there is the possibility of duress. Do not look alarmed!" he cried, seeing Mrs. Darcy's eyes widen. "Atherton is a good sort but Miss Darcy is rather—rash," he finished. "If she would regret her decision, or find herself afraid, I should like to help her, and if she is married, happily, I should like to be the first to give her my felicitations."

Mrs. Darcy admitted that this was very wise, and very good of him.

"And so we both shall go," said Mr. Darcy. "I will go up and tell Porters to pack my things—I will be ready in a quarter of an hour, no more, no less."

And so Mr. Darcy's daughters and his wife stood in the hall-way to bade him good-bye, and to wish him good luck, and to shake hands with their affable neighbor, who was, under the circumstances, bearing up remarkably well. Somehow in the middle of everything Mr. Wimsey had heard of Hetty's engagement and he kissed her and wished her best wishes, and he had thought to bring Freddie a book on Milton that she had been wanting to read. He told Mrs. Darcy not to fret, and promised her it would be for the best whatever way things turned out.

"You are too good!" Mrs. Darcy cried, and she leant forward and she kissed him. "I am happy for Sophy if she is happy, though of course I will give her a tongue-lashing when next I see her for how she has behaved—but I am very sorry, Mr. Wimsey, that you are not to be my son in law, after all."

"I am sorry, too," said Mr. Wimsey gravely, and he turned to Tess.

Her little hand trembled when he took it, and he looked down at it, and up to her. "Do not worry," he told her, mistaking her feeling for concern. "We will find Sophy, and we will bring her back, one way or another."

Oh, how could he think that she was worried over _that_? Tess took her hand away and turned her back, so that he could not see her face. She wondered if Mr. Wimsey had any true knowledge of her heart, at all.


	19. Lady Atherton Makes a Visit

If Sophy had gone to Gretna Green, they might have apprehended her in time to forbid her from becoming Mr

If Sophy _had_ gone to Gretna Green, they might have apprehended her in time to forbid her from becoming Mr. Atherton's wife; but even if they had been too late for that, they might have been able to bring her and her new husband home, and hide them away until the public eye looked elsewhere for a scandal.

As it was, Sophy and Mr. Atherton seemed to have left no trace, and where no where to be found, and so they could not be brought back. And the longer she was missing, the harder it was to tamp down the gossip that surrounded the affair.

Sophy had been off with Atherton for a week; and in that week the news had spread from house to house, like a wildfire, and from thence to larger circles. Within four days it had reached London, and Lady Atherton received it from her daughter, Phoenecia. When she heard what had occurred she promptly swooned; it would not do for _her_ step-son to marry the daughter of _that_ Eliza Bennet—no, no, it would not do at all!

She called for her maid and had her bring her finest, befeathered dress and hat, and then she ordered her chaise be brought around to the front of the house.

She was going to Pemberley.

When she arrived she could not suppress a pang, in looking at it—one that she always felt whenever she saw the place, for she had so often imagined herself as mistress of it. She contented herself in thinking that the garden was rather jungly and over-grown, and that the statues in the lane were not at all the thing. So _noveau_—and certainly Eliza Bennet's doing.

So it was that she was smiling smugly when she was shown into the parlour at Pemberley.

Wilson came up to tell Mrs. Darcy she had a guest, and Elizabeth, hearing the name, took her own time in coming down. She did not change her dress or do up her hair, and when she wandered into the parlour it was with an unhurried, easy gait, and with a warm smile on her face.

"Caro!" she said, moving to clasp the woman's hands, as though it were a friendly visit and nothing else. "How nice to see you. Indeed, I am very glad you are come—now that we are to be in-laws, I hope that we will be great friends, also."

Elizabeth did not mean it, but there was nothing in her manner to suggest such a thing. She seated herself warmly next to old Caro Bingley and reflected how very thin she had gotten—how very skeletal, how waspish. But out loud she said, "Such a wonderful dress!"—and it _was, _for Eliza wondered how any one could be moved to wear it.

Lady Atherton was not used to being kept waiting, and she was livid. In her time alone in the parlour she had abandoned any semblance of politesse. "Pray, do not condescend to me," she said icily. "This is your doing, and I will not have you deny it."

"I suppose you mean to suggest that I threw Sophy into your step-son's path," said Eliza thoughtfully. "If it _is_ what you mean, I assure you it is not the case, though had I known her preference, I surely would have encouraged her to follow it. Indeed, I wonder how you can suggest _I_ was behind it—if I had been, Sophy should have been married from home, instead of having to run away to do it."

"You have lowered one family, and now you will ruin another!" cried Lady Atherton. "I must cling to the hope that they are not married, that my dear Andrew is not ruined, yet!"

"Oh, but he is," said Lizzy cheerfully, tucking her legs under her on the settee. "If they are not yet married, it would be worse, don't you see?—for they would be _not_ married, and yet they have been alone together in each other's company for a week. Better wish that they are, Caro."

Lady Atherton reflected it was no use trying to talk to a woman like Elizabeth Bennet. She addressed the remainder of her remarks somewhere to the above and left of Lizzy's smiling face.

"No doubt it has been your wish to elevate your position through your daughter Sophronia's advantageous match with _my stepson_. I am here to tell you that it is not to be so: I have discussed it with my husband, the Baron Atherton, and he agrees with me. Andrew has been cut out. He will no longer receive his pension from his mother's family, and he has no hope of inheriting from his father! He will be penniless, and how will your daughter like that?"

Lizzy pretended to think for a moment. "I suppose she _shouldn't_ like it at all," she mused, "If it were true."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I only mean," said Eliza, winningly, "That Darcy and I rather expected something like this to happen. We are not happy at the elopement, but not because we do not like your Andrew. We find him perfectly affable when we have met him. And so Darcy has decided that the newly-weds may live here, at Pemberley, until they are on their feet, and a suitable property of their own. He has even decided to double Sophy's dowry, to one hundred thousand pounds. I am sure Mr. Atherton will be extremely grateful to hear it, since his own family has cast him out so pitilessly."

Lady Atherton could do no more than open and close her mouth, like a fish.

"You look rather peaked," said Eliza, who was enjoying herself more than she had in days. "Wouldn't you come and lie down until you are quite the better?"

"No," said Lady Atherton. "I must be going."

"That _is_ too bad," said Lizzy, and again she _sounded_ more sincere than she felt. "I will walk you out."

"Cheer up, Caro," she said, as that Lady was helped into her chaise, "I know you have always admired the Darcy family, and now you are part of it yourself."

It was the closest Elizabeth would ever come to acknowledging the fact that she had won. Lady Atherton blanched noticeably, and told her driver to drive on, quickly.

This visit had not at all gone as she had hoped.


	20. Mr Collins Makes a Visit

The second week began—there was no news

The second week began—there was no news. Elizabeth Darcy, sitting in her bedchamber, reading over her husband's latest letter, sighed. It was bad enough to have one daughter eloped, and another going around in a love-daze, and another crying all the time, for what seemed no apparent reason at all. Neighbors popping in and out all the time, under the guise of concern, but really to dig for details—worried letters from Jane—tearful ones from Kitty—sanctimonious ones from Mary—angry letters from Caro Atherton threatening the flimsiest of legal action. It seemed everyone in the connexion was writing to Pemberley, to Eliza, and on top of that, it was very hard to have her dear Darcy away from her so long!

They had not been separated for such a time in all the years of their marriage.

Lizzy was lost in thought when Wilson came to tap on the door.

"There is someone to see you in the parlour, mum."

"For heaven's sake," Lizzy said, grouchily. "I have dealt with half the neighborhood in the last two days, cannot you make whoever-it-is go away?"

"I am sorry, mum, but he says he is a relation of yours. Horrid man—he looked me over from top to bottom as I went out and said that he would pray for me. _Pray_! I do not care if he is a man of the cloth, he is sanctimonious to the extreme, and I should not like to have to meet him again. Oh—begging your pardon—!" For Wilson, at the tail end of her anger, had realized that this _was_ a member of her mistress's family."

"Do not worry yourself, Wilson. I have begun to form in my mind the realization of whom amongst my relations this must be; and if I am right, I do agree with you in total on the sum of his character."

She went down and into the parlour and she was not surprised at all to see her cousin, Mr. Collins, walking to and fro, picking up items from her mantelpiece and examining them closely before putting it down. She cleared her throat and he jumped, dropping a china shepherdess that he had been holding. It had never been a favorite of Eliza's—she was, in fact, glad to get it gone—but Mr. Collins did not know that, and he supposed from the look on her face that she was very angry he had broken it. He lifted his chin and talked down his nose at her.

"I see that you are upset about your little idol," he said gravely. "I would apologize for breaking it if the Holy Writ did not have explicit instructions upon the subject of graven images. Remember, cousin Eliza, that it would not do to set your heart on such earthly possessions—and that the very first of our commandments cautions that we must not stake our hopes upon false gods."

"You are right," Lizzy said—peevishly, her good humor could not stretch to extend to Mr. Collins after everything else, "Or at least you _would_ be right, if I had ever had any intentions of worshipping a china shepherdess."

Mr. Collins sat down, and in doing so gave Lizzy the opportunity for examining him from on high.

It was many years since last they had met, and in those years, William Collins had been moved from his post at Rosings Park to a bishopric in the North. His body seemed to have swelled in proportion with his inflated sense of imporatance—he was now nearly double the size he had been when Eliza had first known him, and his face was fat and florid and serene with self-satisfaction. She wondered how Charlotte could bear to be around him every day, and in remembering Charlotte, she felt a little pang.

"How is Mrs. Collins?" she asked.

"She is well—but don't you know? It is the chief duty of the wife to maintain important family connections by the writing of newsy letters, every so often, and if Charlotte has been remiss in this duty, I shall have to speak to her very sternly."

"That is not what I meant!" Lizzy cried, not wanting to get her friend into trouble. "I had a letter from Charlotte only last week; in it, she mentioned that she was well and happy, but I do care for her, so, that I take any opportunity to ask after her. That is all I meant. And now I ask after your children, Mr. Collins—that is, if you will not attribute any bad motives to them for _my_ asking."

Mr. Collins nodded gravely and replied that his son, Charles, and his daughter, Cathy, were quite well. And then he sat up straighter, as though he had remember his purpose in coming to Pemberley at all.

"I should very like to speak to you about _your_ daughters, dear cousin—I was most chagrined to hear about Sonoria's elopement—"

"It is Sophronia, actually—"

"And," Mr. Collins continued, raising a warning hand to deter her from speaking again until he had finished, "I cannot pretend to imagine that I understand your pain and worry—since my own children are remarkable well-behaved."

Lizzy waited to make sure that he was done and said, "Mmm?" in a pleasant way.

But below the surface, her blood had begun to boil.

"Indeed," Mr. Collins rhapsodized, "You must be almost overcome anytime you consider the effects that your eldest daughter's actions will have on the hopes and chances of her sisters. I speak, of course, in the broader sense, as in on their health and happiness—but most importantly on their _matrimonial_ chances, as well."

"I do not know what you mean," said Elizabeth.

Mr. Collins seemed amazed that she did not grasp it. "It is like this," he said, very slowly and plainly—or what he expected to be slow and plainly, but was actually very supercilious and patronizing. "Your other daughters cannot hope to be married into any position at all to speak of. Who would have them, now that their sister is a disgrace? And so I am come to make you a most generous offer, under the circumstances, Cousin. I do propose that one of your daughters marry _my_ Charles—it is the kindest thing that kin may do, under the circumstances. And they will not get a better offer. I only regret that I have but one son—it will take care of one of your girls—I thought perhaps Henrietta would do. She has a most comely, retiring air, if I remember properly."

"Hetty is engaged," said Lizzy shortly, having decided that she would not waste words on someone so odious—and someone so ridiculous. "To a Mr. Henry Eustis—the man who inherited your position at Rosings Park."

"Oh," said Mr. Collins, looking a little surprised. "I had not thought that Hetty was quite grand or mannered enough to hold such a vaunted place. But if she is not free, she is not. It is a good chance for her—I would encourage you to make the most of it. One of your other daughters, then—I do not seem to recall their names very promptly—but I remember one as being rather bookish and that will not do. I would not wish Charles the sorrow of a learned wife. Perhaps the other, then—Teresa or Theodora..."

"Theodosia," said Lizzy. "And I feel quite sure I can decline your offer on her behalf, Mr. Collins."

Mr. Collins, now looking rather indignant, implored that she might bring the lady into the room, so she could throw away her chances herself. Lizzy rang the bell and had Wilson summon Tess, who came into the room looking rather pretty and sweet of face, as she often did. Mr. Collins eyes lit up to see her.

"Tessie," said Lizzy, "Mr. Collins would like to know if you would consider marrying his son, your cousin, Charles."

Tess blinked, amazed, at one to the other, and then said, "Why—no thank you, Cousin Collins!"

Mr. Collins's brow lowered and darkened. "I wonder if you might give me your reasons."

"I do not have but one reason," said Tess simply. "And that is—I barely remember my cousin Charles from his last meeting, and so I do not know him very well—and in not knowing him, I cannot love him."

"Love!" sniffed Mr. Collins. "I did not love my Charlotte when I took her as my wife and we have made a success of it these many years."

"Yes," Tess said, "But all the same, you did not love another. I have already given my heart away, Mr. Collins, and I am afraid I cannot get it back."

Elizabeth Darcy watched her daughter with a look of pride on her face, and felt a pang in her breast—it was as she had suspected but never asked—her last little girl, grown up enough to speak of giving her heart to a man for safekeeping. Oh! It was bittersweet.

Of course Mr. Collins ruined the moment by asking, "Who?"

"That is none of your business," said Tess.

Mr. Collins reflected that there was never a more ungrateful girl in the universe, except perhaps his cousin Eliza; he was very black as he took his hat and prepared to take his leave of them.

"You are a very silly girl," he said to Tess, "And you are derelict in your duty as a mother, madam. I am sorry to say it will be my duty to inform your husband of it. I shall write him as soon as I return home."

"Write away," Lizzy said. "Goodbye, Mr. Collins."

"Well!" she said to Tess, who was shaking a little, "Let us go in and take a restoring cup of tea—it is a pity your father frowns on drinking, Tessie—or else we might have something a little stronger. Medicinally, of course. Oh, and Wilson!" she called.

"Yes, mum?"

"I do not care who calls next, I do not care if I am come down with ague, and at death's door—if anyone else calls, pray tell them that we are not receiving guests of any kind. Not until Sophy comes back, at least—and perhaps a good time after that, the way things have been going!"


	21. The Return of the Prodigals

The very day after Mr

The very day after Mr. Collins's visit, came a letter from Mr. Darcy, in London, saying that the runaways had been found, and were married. It was quite what they were expecting, but Elizabeth Darcy could not help but feel a pang at the news. Not on Mr. Wimsey's account, or for Sophy, who was no doubt over the moon—no, she was sorry for herself. She had not yet reconciled her mind to the fact that her little daughters might be old enough to be married; she tossed her husband's letter aside and propped her chin in her hand, leaning forward to study her face in the small mirror opposite.

"You are old, Lizzy," she told herself. "I suppose there is no two ways about it. Oh! Is that a silver hair? I _thought_ Lady Catherine was looking askance at me. How silly I am, to even care. But I _do_ care. I cannot help myself. Oh—oh—Sophy married—and Hetty engaged—little Hetty—and soon the others will follow. And dear Pemberley will be left desolate."

Lizzy reached into a drawer and removed a miniature of her five children, done when the twins were only small, and a large hanky, which she proceeded to weep large, luxuriating tears into, until Tess rapped on the door and told her that Hetty and Freddie were fighting like cats in the parlor. At once Lizzy's tears dried up, she threw her handkerchief aside and descended the stairs, to find Freddie and Henrietta with red faces and curls askew, shouting at each other.

"She has spilt jam on my best copy of _The Scottish Chiefs!_" Freddie cried, hoping to find an ally in her mother, who did not hold with the abuse of books; but Elizabeth was too agitated to have pity on either girl.

"Freddie, stop your cauterwauling or I shall throw the Scottish Chiefs into the fire, jam or no jam. Hetty, you have nothing to cry for, since nothing of your own has been harmed; I do hope that you will apologize to your sister. It would be the womanly thing to do, since you are about to be a married woman yourself; if you cannot find it in your heart to do it, I shall speak to your father and we shall discuss seriously your readiness to take such a momentous leap into matrimony."

"I'm sorry," Hetty said grudgingly.

"You should be," said Freddie, and when her mother pinched her, she said, stiffly, "It is all right, Hetty."

"Now go to your rooms," Lizzy told all three of the girls. "For lord knows we do not need any more excitement today."

At that very moment came the sound of a carriage rattling up the drive. Eliza Darcy threw up her hands.

"Lord in heaven!" she cried. "It is Lady Catherine come with an angry mob—it is Mr. Collins come to torch the place—it is..."

"It is Papa and Sophy!" Freddie exclaimed, peering out of the window. "And Mr. Atherton!"

Lizzy ran outside and at the sight of her daughter, pink and shining and happy, all of her bad mood melted instantly away—she loved Sophy with all her heart, even when she was naughty—and she instantly loved Andrew Atherton for making her look so sweetly satisfied. Elizabeth turned to greet that young gentleman with an impulsive kiss, which surprised him, but then he grinned, and looked so handsome that Lizzy found she could not blame Sophy for eloping with him.

"Do not I get one, too?" wondered Mr. Darcy, and he caught his wife up in his arms. Lizzy reflected that everything seemed so much nicer when Fitzwilliam was at home; Darcy seemed to feel it, too, for her surveyed his three unmarried daughters sternly.

"I do not care if any of you wants to marry the gardener," he said, "If you will only spare me the jaunt that these young ruffians have caused me. You should marry old Boney himself if you will only do it from home."

"And did you not bring us anything from Gretna Green?" Freddie was asking her sister teasingly.

"Gretna Green!" Sophy cried, disdainful, "We did not go to Gretna Green! We went to France, instead! And wasn't it smart of us, Mamma, for nobody thought of looking at us there! I am sure none of _you_ will be married in such state," she embraced her sisters each in turn, "But that is not why I feel sorry for you—it is because I am sure you will never find a match as perfect as my dear Atherton." She turned to bestow a kiss upon his face, and led him eagerly into the house, calling over her shoulder that she had visited Aunt Georgiana, and that Aunt Georgiana sent her love to all.

"Georgiana was the one who tipped me off," Darcy explained to his wife. "The little love-birds showed up at her _chateau_, and what could she do but refuse them?"

"_And_ advise Sophy on her wedding-clothes, it appears," said Eliza, looking at Sophy's rather subdued dove-gray dress.

"No-body wears colors on the Continent anymore, it is not at all the thing," Sophy said, smoothing her skirt. "_Dear_ Aunt Georgiana! How I do love her!"

It was another aunt, however, who was the real catalyst behind the elopement.

"We could not have done it without Aunt Lydia," Sophy confessed, after tea was served, holding tight to Atherton's hand. "I did not even tell you this, Papa—but it was Aunt Lydia who noticed my mood when I was in town—it was _she_ who drew the secret out of me, that I loved Atherton, and it was she who convinced me to run away, and advised me how to slip away without being caught, and even sent her carriage to take us to Bournemouth."

"I shall kill her," Darcy muttered. "Kill her with my bare hands."

"Do not say you will, Papa, for if Aunt Lydia had been unwilling to help, I should have done it anyway!"

It was at this juncture that Mr. Atherton spoke up, rather shamefacedly, but with such a sincere feeling in his voice that his listeners were deeply moved.

"I do not pretend that I have done right," he admitted, "In stealing Sophy away. I should not have done it, she should have been married from home. It is _your_ right, sir." He bowed to Mr. Darcy. "But I felt that if we tried to go through proper channels, it would not happen—and I do love her so, I could not risk it. But you see, there was the issue of Mr. Wimsey, and my step-mother, I know, is quite against the match. I had a letter from her, telling me that I have been cut out; I have lost my fortune. But I have gained the best little wife in the world—and there is no fortune that could compensate for not having _her_."

"But," said Elizabeth uneasily, "What shall you do—how shall you live—if you have not any money? Sophy shall have her dowry, of course—but where will you live?"

Sophy and Atherton exchanged a glance. It was Atherton who spoke, and some of the vigor had gone from his voice, but squared his shoulders bravely.

"I read the law at Oxford, you know; I had never expected to use it, but my father had thought that I should have some means of supporting myself, even if I am the eldest son. But I have made some inquiries, and I cannot find a place at any bar. I fear that my step-mother has turned even my father against me, and his influence is great. I did have a letter from a friend, saying that Major-General Middlemore is taking a regiment to St. Helena as part of the colonization effort; I shall sign on with him, and go with him."

"St. Helena!" cried Eliza, and Darcy, and all the girls but Sophy, who remained perfectly composed, and calmly took her husband's hand.

"Oh, Sophy, no!" breathed Tess.

"It is half a world away!" cried Freddie, tears standing in her eyes.

"I do not care if it was on the moon," Sophy said. "If Atherton and I can be together there."

It was Mr. and Mrs. Darcy's turn to exchange a meaningful glance; in one look everything had been worked out and when Darcy spoke, it was with absolute certainty.

"You shall not go," he said, "That is: you shall not have to, if you do not want to. You and Sophy may stay here, Atherton, if you would like to stay here, at Pemberley, until something can be worked out and your fortune can be restored to you. There is only one person, I think, that Caro Bingley is afraid of in the world and it is _me_. I will write to her immediately and I promise you, you will never have any cause to worry about her influence after that. I feel so certain of it that I promise you it will be as I have said. We might even put a wager on it, if you would like. And even if I am wrong, Atherton, you will be the winner in the end, for the doors of Pemberley will be open for you as long as you live."

"Papa!" Sophy cried, jumping up to throw her arms about his neck. "We have been so bad! We do not deserve such kindness!"

Darcy smoothed her hair. "_You_ do not, and that is the truth, Sophronia. However, I am fond of Atherton, and I would not want him to die of marsh fever simply because he had the great misfortune to fall in love with you."

"I could not help it, sir," Atherton confessed, "I knew I loved her the moment I saw her. It was her eyes, you see, that caught me; they are remarkably fine."

Darcy looked lovingly over at his wife; she smiled and pressed his hand, and called for the best wine to be brought up from the cellar, that they might toast the happy couple.


	22. London Again

"And so all is well that ends well," proclaimed Hetty that night, pulling on a thick pair of stockings and climbing into bed

"And so all is well that ends well," proclaimed Hetty that night, pulling on a thick pair of stockings and climbing into bed. It was cold in the old nursery, and Hetty snuggled to her twin for warmth.

"It is strange," Tess said, in a soft voice, "That Sophy will never again sleep in this room with us."

"Tosh!" Hetty cried, "She is only down the hall-way in the east wing."

"You are going, too, Hetty," Tess sighed. "You will be gone from us soon enough."

There was a muffled sob from Freddie's bed across the room—the one that she had always shared with Sophy—and Hetty pinched Tess under the covers and made a sound of exasperation.

"You have made Freddie cry," she said ferociously, getting up and going across the room to comfort her sister. "Sophy is—and I am only to be—_married_, Tess. It is not a tragedy. Scoot over, Frederica—I will sleep with you tonight, and so you will not be lonely."

Tess lay alone in the dark until she heard her sister's breathing lengthen into sleep. When she was quite sure it was safe, she climbed out of bed and went to the window. There had been built a little nook there, and the sisters had used to love to sit in the sun with a book when they were young. Tess sat there now, and parted the curtains, and looked down at the sleeping world.

How lovely Pemberely was by moonlight! It split over every thing and made a path on the lake. Tess saw a slim fawn make its way out of the forest to lower its head to the shining water. The fawn drank, and then a sudden noise, unheard to Tess, made it prick its ears up, and bound gracefully away.

Over the hill she could just see the dark outlines of Corinth House against the darker sky. There was a light on in a window upstairs, and no where else; Tess knew without knowing that it was Mr. Wimsey's personal rooms, and that he must be there, awake, even at this house, as she was. She had not heard that he was back from town. But of course he must be, now that Sophy and Atherton had been found and brought back; there would be no reason for him to stay.

Was he sleepless from sorrow? Tess wondered. Was he restless—was he even now thinking of Sophy? Or—could she dare dream it—was he thinking—of _Tess_? She shivered at the thought and then pinched her own arm in annoyance. Of _course _Wimsey was not thinking of her! How silly to even suppose it. He was dreaming of his fragrant coffee fields, he was thinking of his plans for his new business—or else he was staring into the fire, thinking of nothing at all.

Tess had fallen out of the habit of praying, even since Cousin Collins had told her, when she was very small, that God did not have the time to listen to the feeble prayers of naughty little girls. Tess did not suppose herself very good, and so she found it hard to pray after that. But now—tonight—she could not help a sort of prayer welling up in her heart.

"Come to me," she said, to the lighted window, touching the glass of her own. "Oh, do not stay away, for I could not bear it!"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

But Wimsey did not come to Pemberley.

He sent a note of such perfect congratulations to Sophy and Atherton, and made a gift of a curious Indian god statuette to the couple, a fantastical gilt creature with many graceful waving arms. He wrote that he should like to offer his best wishes in person, only that he was very busy, and did not know when he might get away. But Tess watched for the light in his window every night and knew that he was there, at Corinth Hall, only across the dark water from her. He was there, and he did not come.

In a month they supposed he would not come at all, and that the rift between the families was permanent. There would always remain a coldness between the Wimseys and the Darcys. They heard of Mr. Wimsey only in passing, and then nobody thought to speak of him at all. Tess's tender heart was in agony, and she was only too glad to agree to come to London with Hetty and Mamma, for the purpose of buying Hetty's wedding clothes.

"This time we will take no chances," Darcy said staunchly. "We will all go to London, and I shall keep a sharp eye on the lot of you—even you, Lizzy. You cannot convince me that naughtiness is not hereditary, and our girls' had to be inherited from somewhere."

"Perhaps it was from _you_, then," said his wife, saucily.

The night before their departure Tess watched in the window for Mr. Wimsey's light. It did not come. The house stayed dark, and she went to bed feeling as though it were an omen of some kind.

In London they stayed with Aunt Jane, and Aunt Kitty and her boys where there, and Aunt Mary called to tell them all hello, looking so happy, as she always did, that nobody ever believed Mamma's stories about her being a little pedant of a girl. How _could_ anyone believe it of dear Aunt Mary? Aunt Lydia dared not show her face, but she sent a letter of contrite apology, and said that she would like very much to go to the dressmaker's with them to pick Kitty's trousseau.

"She has misspelled 'trousseau' and I shall never forgive her for leading Sophy down the path of elopement," Darcy fumed. "But she is your sister, and you may meet her at the dressmaker's—as long as you do not bring her here."

"I do not see how we can avoid her," Lizzy mused. "And it would be nice to have her opinion. One of Lydia's only good qualities is that she is fashionable—I have no fashion sense, since I have been kept in the country for years and years by my tyrant of a very dear husband."

So Lydia met them at Madame Oiseau's dress shop, in a fantastical turban, brimming over with excitement.

"I have just been looking at the fabrics," she said, before they had even greeted her. "I am sure nothing will suit Freddie more than this green crape—and Tess must wear blue, it is her only color—and Hetty in a very pale rose pink silk, with a little hat of matching toile, and a cluster of baby pink roses. I know what you are thinking, that she will be quite lost in all the colours of her sisters, in such a pale one, but Hetty is the prettiest of all the girls by far, and all eyes will be on her anyway. My dear, I must ask you," she turned to Freddie, "How _do_ you feel about showing your bosom? I have already spoken to the Frenchie about making it quite low; you are a stick otherwise and you must use all of your assets if you are to catch a husband before poor Tess here!"

"_I _shall have final say on the necklines of the dresses, Lydia," said Mrs. Darcy, drawing herself to her full height.

"Oh, you are such a prude and you always have been, Eliza Darcy!"

"Eliza Darcy?" came an arch voice out of the shadows of the shop. The Darcy contingent turned and saw a very thin—painfully thin—lady in a striking violet gown, with a hat made of peacock feathers perched atop her sleek brown hair. With her was a rather plain, sharp-faced girl of sixteen or so, in a gown of primrose that did not suit her sallow skin.

"Eliza Darcy?" repeated the woman. "Come along, Phoenecia, and put down those ribbons. If this sort of riff-raff is allowed to frequent this establishment, we will go elsewhere."

"How dare you speak to us in such a way?" wondered Freddie, trembling with anger. "We are the Fitzwilliam Darcys, and we are not riff-raff in any way. We do not even know you; so how can you speak to us so?"

"_I_ am Lady Atherton," said Lady Atherton, with her nose in the air. "And I knew your mother when she was nobody. I watched her claw her way into an auspicious match, and I watched her allow poor Georgiana to marry quite beneath her; I watched her disgrace the name of Pemberley, and then I watched her ruin the chances of my poor step-son by pushing him into a marriage with her daughter. It is the most despicable of behavior and I shall not have my dear daughter exposed to it. _We_ are of a higher class."

Beside Tess, Mamma was quivering in a rage and could not speak. But Aunt Lydia stepped forward like a bantam hen and spoke up in a high, clear voice.

"_You_ are not of a high anything," she said to Caroline Atherton; "Indeed, I have not forgotten the tricks you used to get Lord Atherton to marry you! They were taking bets in the alehouses on it; I put down half a crown that you _would_, because people who are so catty will always show their claws, they cannot help it. I have not forgotten you, Caroline Bingley. You made London a hell for me, when my Wickham died, and left me in the lurch, and before Mrs. Porter took me in, I had nowhere to go. I was too proud to go to my sisters and it was Lady Atherton—the _first _Lady Atherton—who found me crying in Regent Park and took me in. She fell ill shortly afterwards, and I helped to nurse her—and I have not forgotten that it was then, when she was on her deathbed, that you first snagged her husband! Oh, I know! While she was ill and at death's door, you were planning how you would decorate her rooms, when _she_ was gone, and you were mistress of the house; I remember your designer came in to take the measurements for the furniture. I know because I was there, with her, wiping her brow. Well, I remember his name and where he works and he and I have stayed in touch these many years, so he can corroborate every thing I say! You will apologize to my sister and my nieces this instant—and you _will_ give your step-son his inheritance—or I shall tell everybody what I know! I may not have a name or title, but I have a tongue, and when I speak, people listen. I have half a mind to tell it all, anyway!"

The shop was quiet for a full minute. Lady Atherton's face was a picture of horror and dismay. They watched as her lip began to tremble and two skinny tears slid down her rouged cheeks. "I—I," she began, "I did not know—I did not mean to take Atherton away from her—we fell in love..."

"You fell in _greed_," Lydia corrected. "You will apologize, now."

"I am sorry," said Lady Atherton to her silk slippers.

"_Mean _it," said Lydia cuttingly.

Caroline Bingley Atherton raised her face and looked at Elizabeth Darcy pitifully. "I am sorry, Lizzy," she said. "I have said some unkind things over the years. I regret them now."

"I'm sure you do," said Lydia cheerfully.

"It is all right, Caro," said Mrs. Darcy kindly. "It is water under the bridge."

"Come along Phoenecia," said Lady Atheron, and grabbed her daughter by the arm, and fled from the store.

"Aunt Lydia," breathed Hetty, when they were gone.

"Lydia," said Elizabeth, touching her on the arm. "I am glad you stood up for us. But my dear, is it true? When Wickham died—we did not know that things were so bad for you—oh, Lydia, I wish you had told me. You would have been welcome at Pemberley, no matter what."

"It was true enough then but it is of no consequence now," Lydia said gaily. "I will admit I was in a pinch for a time—but it all worked out for the best, for if I had not gone to Atherton House then I would not have been able to put Caroline Bingley in her place once and her for all, today." Her dark eyes sparkled with mischief. "My only regret," she said, "Is that Darcy could not be a fly on the wall for _that_—I think his opinion of me would have changed if he could have seen it."

"I shall tell him all, and he will love you for it," said Eliza simply.

And it was true. Darcy looked at Lydia differently from that day on, and there was never any more talk of him killing her with his bare hands, or of murder of any sort.


	23. The Darcy Daughters, Revisted

"Goodbye Hetty

"Goodbye Hetty! Oh, Hetty—goodbye! Goodbye Mr. Eustis—_dear _Brother Harry!"

The Darcy sisters waved and waved at the departing carriage which held the newly-weds, Mrs. Darcy unabashedly wiped tears from her eyes and even Mr. Darcy had to turn his back and clear his throat rather loudly to retain composure. His wife let him put his arm around her and waved again at the carriage, though it was disappearing around the bend in the road.

"I do hope she will not catch a cold in France," she murmured.

"How old," wondered Fitzwilliam Darcy, smiling now, "Must children get before their mothers stop fretting over them?"

"Oh! It must be when we are dead and buried; I know I shall worry about my darlings until they are mothers themselves—grandmothers, even, if I should live so long!" Laughing, Eliza Darcy dried her eyes and took her husband's hand and rambled off toward the garden, since they wedding-day was pleasant still and warm—the first real day of that year's summer.

"I should adore to go to France," sighed Sophy, forgetting she had been there only months ago for her own wedding.

"Come along, little bird," said Mr. Atherton. "Let us walk around the lake and see the plot for our new house. The architect was over this week marking it off—it will face north, across the water, so that you might see Pemberley each morning from your bed, and not feel so far away from home."

Freddie and William soon broke off and began arguing over a book he had brought his bookish sister from the university, the latest by an American named James Fenimore Cooper. They beckoned to Tess to join them but she found she could not move from the spot. She felt a peculiar sadness that she could not explain—seeing Hetty go away from her had moved her deeply, had shaken the foundations of her twinly being.

"She will be back," Tess said, staring at the road, as though she expected the carriage to come around again, to bring Hetty back. It was no use. Hetty was gone off to Kent, to her new home at Rosings Park. And even when she visited, from now on, things would not be the same.

"She is happy," Tess said firmly. "That is enough for me."

She stood and ran down the steps, deciding that she would not sit still and mope on her sister's wedding day. What a beautiful day it had been. All of the aunts there, and most of the people from the neighborhood—save a few. Oh, she would not think of _him_! Tess took the path that led around the lake in the opposite direction of the way that Sophy and Atherton had gone—she did not relish company, but preferred to be alone with her thoughts.

Her path took her through a little dim wood, and its green melancholia perfectly suited her mood. She began to feel very sorry for herself. Hetty, her closest sister and her best ally, had gone. Tess was not due to visit them until Michaelmas. It seemed so far off. All of the sisters getting married! Soon Freddie would go—if anyone would have Freddie—and it would be Tess alone, rattling around Pemberley like a ghost, with only Mamma and Pappa to stave off loneliness. She kept her head down and blinked fast so that she would not cry, and when she stepped into a bright little clearing, she almost collided with another walker on that same path.

"Tess," said Mr. Wimsey. "You are _here_."

There was wonder in his voice, and delight. She could not mistake it—even in her wildest dreams, she could had not prepared for this! His hands were warm on her shoulders and she looked up and into his face and saw his eyes alight. Quick as a flash she leaned up and she kissed him—or he leaned down and kissed her—either way, their lips met, and Tess felt a thrill like she had never felt before.

"Oh!" she laughed, and pulled back, and tried to be cross with him. "I should not greet you so nicely when you have not come to see us in so long—you are little more than a stranger now to us, dear Mr. Wimsey. We have not seen you in so many months—and here am I, kissing you! You do not deserve kisses!" Her tone was light but a look flashed across her face that betrayed the agony she had felt at his absence.

Wimsey did not laugh. He took her hand and he pressed it.

"I wanted to come," he said, quite solemnly. "Do believe me, dearest Tess. Every day I thought, today, _today_, I shall go to her at Pemberley. I sat up in my room nights and I watched across the pond—"

"Did you? Oh, I did, too—"

"But I thought it must be too soon. I thought that if I went to Pemberley people would say I was longing for Sophy still—and I was not that, Tess."

"I know," said Tess. "I knew you could not love her."

"That is not exactly true," Wimsey said. "I could have loved her quite well—if I had not started loving _you_ instead."

She trembled to hear him say it. But she must ask. "Oh!" she cried, for she needed to know, "Why _did_ you ask Sophy in the first place—if it was _me_ you loved?"

He gathered her in his arms. "It has hurt you. _I_ have hurt you."

Tess said nothing, but hid her face against his shoulder.

"Tess," said Wimsey, "I have been fond of you since we first met, but I thought you were too young—I did not ever love Sophy—and I did not think you could love me. By the time I realized it, it was too late—we were engaged."

"When did you begin to love me?" Tess wondered, slanting her eyes to look at him.

"I think it was a night at Corinth Hall, last winter," Wimsey said. "You were sitting by the fire, and the light was on your hair, and you looked as though you _belonged_ there, more than any other thing. I thought it _must_ be so—it must come to pass. You must live there, and be there for all your days, for I loved you shamelessly in that moment. I was determined to make it happen. If Atherton had not run away with Sophy of his own accord I would have paid him all my fortune to do it."

Tess lifted his hand to her lips. Her eyes were shining. Together they walked in the sunshine, which seemed brighter and warmer than any June sun in the history of Junes. After a while, Tess asked,

"Are you not afraid now that people will not think you long for Sophy, when you come to me at Pemberley?"

"No," said Wimsey. "I believe that some will think it. I think they will suppose that I am in love with Sophy, still. But if I go every day—and walk out with you—I think that people will admire you for consoling me in my grief—and after a season or two of long walks, in which you do console me, I shall start to hold my head higher and people will say, 'She is good for him—she has given him new purpose.' By spring they will see us together and they will think, 'Why, that little Theodosia suits him better than a pack of Sophys,' and by the time we are married, about this time, next summer, they will have forgotten that there was ever any other claim on my heart to begin with."

"I think that sounds very rational," said Tess, and she leaned up to give him an irrational kiss. "In fact, I think we should begin on it _now_."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Tess said goodnight to Mr. Wimsey in the garden and there was no pain in parting with him, for she would see him on the morrow—and the morrow after that—and after that—all the days of her life. Mr. Wimsey came up onto the porch to shake hands with Mr. Darcy and to inquire as to his wife's health and well-being. Lizzy Darcy greeted him so warmly that Tess thought Mamma must have suspected everything all along and she glowed with happiness as she walked Wimsey to the gate and waved him off. When he was gone, she sighed and went back to the house and danced into the parlour where her family was assembled.

"I can see what is happening," said Darcy, "And I bless Wimsey for putting the color back into your cheeks, Tess. He has not asked me my permission but I promised him Sophy, once, so I suppose it would not be sporting if I told him he could not take you."

"Don't you like him, Pappa?" Tess wondered.

"I do—but I like _you_ more. I like you exceedingly, Theodosia. You are one of my favorite people in the world."

"You are mine," said Tess. "Along with Mr. Wimsey."

"I suppose I will have to let him have you, then," Darcy sighed. "But Tess, are you not worried that people will accuse you of taking your sister's leavings?"

"Wimsey has a plan for that," Tess laughed. "But I would not care if he had been betrothed to a dozen Sophys—I would take him, still."

"Well, that is settled," said Darcy to his wife. "Two daughters married—and one to be. Tess, you must not flaunt your status to Freddie—she will be terribly injured at having _two_ younger sisters married before she is."

"Oh, I shall be married before Tess, Papa!" Freddie said cheerfully. "My cousin Raleigh Bingley and I are to be married this Christmas."

There was a short, shocked silence and then every body laughed.

"Well, that settles that," said Mr. Darcy, holding up his hands.

"And all's well that end's well," said his wife, raising her glass to toast each of the four Darcy daughters—and to true love.


End file.
